Page 24

Holden

T he treadmill whirs beneath me, my strides steady and mechanical. Sweat drips down my neck, the burn in my legs barely making a dent in the frustration pressing against my ribs. I push harder, the sound of my steps filling the room, drowning out everything else.

It doesn’t help.

Arden’s face lingers in my head. That hard look she gave me in the car, her words clipped and cold. She’s angry, and I can’t blame her. But she doesn’t know. And she can’t know.

Leo.

The name sits heavy, a stone in my chest that I can’t shake. It’s my fault. He made the call, but I should’ve stopped him. Traded places. But telling her wouldn’t change anything. Not what happened, not the way she looks at me now.

I hate lying to her. More than I should. But the alternative? She’d never forgive me. If she didn’t already hate me, she would then.

Yet the thought sticks. Her hating me shouldn’t matter, but it does. It sits wrong, like an itch I can’t reach.

I slow the treadmill, stepping off and grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face.

The workout hasn’t helped. It never does.

The house is quiet as I make my way to the living room.

I stop short when I see the plate on the table, covered with a napkin. For a second, I don’t move and just stare at it.

She left it.

She’s furious, but she still left me something to eat.

I exhale slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. I glance toward the hallway. Her door is shut, the faint glow of light visible underneath.

The food sits untouched on the table as I drop onto the couch, my head leaning back against the cushion.

Lying to her feels like breaking something fragile, but telling her the truth? That would shatter everything. And I can’t figure out why that matters so much. It just does.

I lean forward, grabbing the plate she left for me. She actually cooked. Grilled chicken, perfectly roasted vegetables, and buttery mashed potatoes. My jaw tightens as I take a bite, the flavors reminding me of home, of something softer than the push and pull that’s become second nature between us.

She didn’t have to do this. Yet she did.

The thought sits heavy in my chest, not my stomach. My appetite’s shot, but I finish it anyway, cleaning the plate before placing it on the rack to dry. My phone buzzes, dragging me out of my thoughts.

Ma: Are you coming to Sunday dinner?

I run a hand down my face, leaning back into the couch. I could’ve sworn I told her I would be away, but I guess not.

Me: No. I’ll be away for a while.

Me: I’m sorry. I’ll add Tuesdays onto the schedule for the foreseeable future.

The response feels as guilty as I do. Another buzz follows, this time from Tate.

Tate: Park and I just got here. We’ll meet up tomorrow. Don’t scare her off before then.

My grip tightens on the phone, the teasing grating on my already frayed nerves.

Me: Didn’t plan on it.

I toss the phone aside, flipping on the TV out of habit more than anything. The screen flickers, filling the room with empty sound, but none of it sticks. My focus drifts to the hallway, where her door remains closed, light seeping through the bottom.

The thought of her in there, angry and avoiding me, twists something inside my chest.

I stay on the couch for as long as I can stand it, but the itch under my skin doesn’t fade. Eventually, I stand, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood as I make my way to her door.

I hesitate, my hand hovering just shy of knocking, when I hear it.

A soft sound.

I freeze, my heart pounding hard enough to echo in my ears.

Another sound. A low, breathy moan that shoots straight to my dick, making me hard in an instant.

I should turn around. Walk away. But I can’t.

I press my palm against the wall beside her door, my breath shallow as the noise comes again, more distinct this time. My name. Barely audible but unmistakable.

Heat surges through me, sharp and relentless, pooling low in my body. My fingers curl into fists against the wall, trying to anchor myself, but the pull is suffocating.

Another broken sound. Another whisper of my name.

My cock strains painfully against my waistband, my body betraying every shred of restraint I’m clinging to.

I should leave. I know I should. This is a line I can’t cross, a moment I can’t undo. But I’m stuck, rooted to the spot, every nerve in my body alive and burning.

Her voice, soft and needy, cuts through the door again. And for a moment, I swear my control slips.

My knuckles tap against the door before I can think better of it.

The sound feels loud in the silence, and for a moment, I’m certain she won’t answer.

Then, she says a soft, breathy, “Come in.”

The air shifts, growing heavier as I twist the knob, pushing the door open slowly. The warm light from a bedside lamp casts the room in soft gold.

Arden sits on the edge of the bed, her legs tucked beneath her. She’s in a thin camisole, the straps delicate against her flushed skin, her wavy hair slightly mussed, as if she’s been running her hands through it.

I stop in the doorway, the breath hitching in my throat as my gaze trails over her. The faint sheen on her skin, the way the fabric clings to her curves, it all strikes me with the force of a freight train.

My mind goes to places it shouldn’t, places it can’t.

I wonder how soft her mocha skin would feel under my hands, how she’d sound if I touched her the way I’ve been fighting not to think about. I want to grip her thighs, drag her to the edge of the bed, and take her hard enough that she can’t look at me without remembering exactly who made her fall apart.

It’s like I can taste how sweet that fiery mouth would be. I wonder if she’d still be able to argue while she chokes. The thoughts I shouldn’t be having go to the deepest and darkest depths of desire, and I can’t stop it. No matter how hard I try. No matter how wrong this is.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, wide and questioning, and it snaps something taut inside me.

“You left me a plate,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.

Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t look away. “You didn’t have to come all the way here to say thank you.”

“I did.” My hand tightens around the doorknob, knuckles whitening as I cling to the last thread of composure. “Contrary to belief, my mama did teach me manners.”

Her cheeks are still faintly flushed, her chest rising and falling in a way that makes it hard not to notice the shift of fabric with each breath. The urge to close the distance between us, to bury my hands in her hair and claim her lips, is almost unbearable.

“Did you like it?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost cautious.

“Yeah,” I manage, though the word comes out lower than intended. “It was good.”

“Good,” she murmurs, her lips curving slightly. It’s not quite a smile but close enough to knock something loose in me.

I should leave. I’ve thanked her. There’s no reason to stand here, gripping the doorframe like a lifeline while my gaze keeps flickering to the hollow of her throat, the faint sheen on her skin.

But my feet don’t move.

The silence stretches, and her gaze drifts to my hand still gripping the door. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her bottom lip, and I feel it everywhere, sharp and hot.

She’s too close, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to take the three steps between us, how I could press her back against that bed, spread her thighs, and hear her beg my name like she did through the door.

“Holden?” Her voice snaps me out of it, her brows knitting slightly in question.

I clear my throat, straightening. “I should let you rest.”

Her head tilts slightly, studying me, and I can’t help but notice the faint flush crawling down her neck. My gut twists, caught somewhere between guilt and hunger.

“Thanks for saying thanks,” she says, her voice light but edged with something I can’t quite name.

I nod stiffly. “Good night, Rookie.”

My voice is clipped, and I force myself to turn, the door closing softly behind me.

The moment I’m in the hallway, I press my back to the wall, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

All I can see is the way she looked at me, the way her skin glowed in the low light. My body aches with tension, and the tightness in my sweats is a painful reminder of how badly I want her.

I run a hand over my face, clenching my jaw. I should be disgusted with myself. She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want me.

I shove off the wall, dragging myself down the hallway, knowing I’ll spend the rest of the night fighting off the memory of her hearing my name on her lips, knowing damn well there’s nothing I could do about it.