Page 17 of Kellan & Emmett (Gomillion High Reunion #1)

Emmett

I should’ve said something. Christ, anything. But the words stuck, tangled up with twenty years of anger and shame.

Kellan stood there, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen — not under Friday night lights, not even that last night we…

My pulse thudded hard. Because damn, but part of me wanted to reach out. To close the gap between us, to say I knew what it felt like to be untethered.

Instead I dragged in a breath and forced my voice to work.

“It’s reckless, yeah. But… it’s also brave.”

It came out lower, rougher, softer than I meant.

And the way his shoulders eased—just barely—was enough to wreck me all over again.

Kellan scrubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes sliding past the empty field.

“Truth is, I don’t even know where I’ll be sleeping long-term.”

“What, planning to pitch a tent on the fifty-yard line?”

His head tipped, catching me watching him. And there it was—the smallest flicker of a smile, gone almost before I caught it.

“Wouldn’t be the worst spot,”

he said.

“Better view than some of the motels I’ve stayed in.”

I huffed, shaking my head.

“Pretty sure Rick would run you off before the sprinklers did.”

Kellan’s grin widened, just enough to show he remembered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time we got run off somewhere.”

My brow rose. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t play innocent. Who climbed the fence with me at the old drive-in, swearing we’d just hang out for a while? And who nearly broke their neck trying to scramble back over when the manager came at us?”

A snort slipped out before I could stop it.

“You’re the one who caught your jeans on the fence.”

“And you left me there,”

he shot back, grin tugging wider.

“Some best friend.”

Heat pricked my neck, half from the memory, half from the way his eyes lingered on me now.

“You were the one who said just five more minutes—every damn time. You made it sound like the world would end if I didn’t give in.”

“And you always did.”

His voice dipped, softer, not quite teasing anymore.

For a second, it felt too close to the bone. I broke eye contact, cleared my throat, aiming for lightness.

“Guess some of us had a hard time saying no.”

That pulled a huff of laughter out of him—quiet, surprised. Against my will, the corner of my own mouth twitched too.

Not much. Barely there. But enough.

It was the first time in twenty years that we’d both smiled in the same breath.

My chest tightened, the ache too familiar.

Don’t fall for him again. Don’t.

But the warning in my head was already drowned out by the way his eyes held mine.

Gravity. That’s what it was. The same damn pull that had wrecked me once already.

I dragged in a breath, forced my arms tighter across my chest, like I could hold myself together with sheer will. This is temporary, I told myself. He’ll coach for the summer, then he’ll be gone again.

But another thought slid in anyway, traitorous and quiet.

Maybe not.

I hated how much that whisper lit something in me.

“So what now?”

The words slipped out sharper than I meant. I loosened my jaw, tried again.

“I mean… you planning to crash at the inn forever? It doesn’t exactly come cheap.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

“Are you kicking me out already?”

“I’m saying…”

My arms tightened, fingers biting into my own elbows.

“You didn’t check out. And if you’re serious about hanging around here for the summer, you’ll need a plan that’s not bleeding your savings dry.”

He watched me, like he was trying to gauge if this was an opening or another wall. My pulse thudded too loud in my ears.

I forced the words past it.

“You can help out at the inn, maybe pitch in with some chores around the place…”

My throat worked.

“I could… adjust the rate.”

It came out gruff, practical, like I was just running numbers. But the heat in my chest gave me away.

Because this wasn’t about rent. It was about wanting him close.

His brows lifted.

“You’d really do that?”

The question wasn’t light. Wasn’t casual. It landed between us like he was testing the ground before stepping onto it.

I swallowed, my tongue thick in my mouth. “Yeah,”

I said finally.

“I mean it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, shoulders tense, like he couldn’t quite believe I wasn’t about to yank the offer back. The silence stretched long enough that I had to fight the urge to fill it, to take it back before it turned into something I couldn’t live with.

“Are you sure this isn’t you just… being polite?”

My laugh was short, rough in my throat.

“Polite would’ve been handing you a bill and wishing you luck.”

His mouth curved—small, almost reluctant, but real.

And damn me, my chest eased at the sight.

That almost-smile flickered and my chest clenched hard, traitor heart lurching like it remembered exactly how it used to feel to put it there.

Idiot. Don’t go soft now. This is the same man who left without a word, who stayed gone for twenty years.

I dug my nails into my palms, tried to remind myself what I’d already decided a hundred times: this is temporary. A summer, maybe less. He’s not staying.

But even as the warning repeated in my head, another voice cut through, quieter, meaner: Then why does it feel so damn good to have him standing here, looking at you like he wants to believe you?

My throat worked, dry as dust. I forced myself not to look away.

His gaze lingered on me, steady enough that I had to fight the urge to shift under it. For a second, I thought he might brush it off, make a joke, pretend he didn’t hear me.

“Do you really mean that?”

I swallowed, pulse hammering.

“Yeah, I mean it.”

A beat passed.

“Then… alright,”

he said at last.

“I’ll stay.”

Relief flared sharp in my chest, loosening something I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. But fear came right on its heels, cold and tight, hissing that I’d just opened the door to getting gutted again.

A part of me wanted to believe that his time here wouldn’t be temporary.

My mouth was dry, but I managed a nod, small, measured. “Good,”

I said, even though my voice didn’t carry half of what tangled inside me.

Because the truth was, nothing about this was simple. Not the relief, or the fear, or the way just standing here with him, made it feel like twenty years of silence hadn’t burned us all the way down.

June 1st

There’s a difference between being adrift and being anchored. I thought I knew which one I was, but maybe I’m somewhere in between.

It’s strange, how one honest word can shift the ground beneath you. For years, I’ve carried the weight of silence, convinced it was safer than admitting I was lost. Yesterday I said it out loud. Today, the air feels different—lighter in places, heavier in others. I don’t know if that’s hope, or just the danger of letting myself want something I’m not sure I deserve.

—K