Page 155 of The Revenge Game

When we finally break apart, Andrew’s glasses are slightly fogged and his smile is brighter than the Friday night lights that used to define my world.

“So,” he says, slightly breathless, “does this mean I finally get to say I made out with the quarterback by my locker?”

“Technically, you’re making out with a sales executive now.”

“Even better. More commission.”

“I always knew you were just after me for my sales bonuses.”

Andrew pushes his glasses back up his nose and pins me with those big brown eyes.

“My parents are house-sitting for my sister this weekend,” he says quietly.

“Are you inviting me home so you can have your wicked way with me?”

He ducks his head, a blush creeping up his neck as his teeth catch his bottom lip. “I mean, I think we need to make up for all those missed high school opportunities.”

I take his hand again. “Lead the way, Techno-Genius.”

Andrew’s childhood home radiates that specific kind of suburban normalcy that looks like the opening scene in a documentary about serial killers or coding prodigies.

His room still retains traces of his teenage years, with academic medals hanging next to anEnder’s Gameposter.

Andrew watches me as I study his room. His expression is soft and uncertain like he’s waiting for my verdict on his teenage self. But all I can think about is how much I wish I could go back and see him then. Really see him the way I do now.

But I can’t change the past.

There’s so much emotion swirling between us that I know the only way to express it is to kiss him until the ghosts of our teenage selves fade, replaced by who we are now.

Two people who found each other despite everything.

Or maybe because of it.

We fall back onto his bed, the mattress squeaking in protest beneath us, my body blanketing his as we continue to kiss. His mouth opens under mine, our tongues tangling as his hands slide up my back.

Teenage Andrew is banished to the past. Just as Teenage Justin is.

They are part of us in the way that our pasts always shape who we are, but they don’t define our future.

I trace my fingers along the collar of Andrew’s shirt, carefully undoing each button like I’m unwrapping something precious. His breath catches as my knuckles brush against his skin, and when I look up, his eyes hold such raw vulnerability that my heart clenches. His hands tremble as they find the hem of my sweater, and I lift my arms to help him.

“Hey,” I whisper against Andrew’s collarbone, my heart racing faster than it did during my speech a few hours ago. “I want… I want to try something different.”

Andrew’s fingers pause where they’ve been tracing patterns on my back. “Yeah?”

“I want you to…” The words catch in my throat. “I want to feel you. Inside me.”

Andrew pulls back slightly, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I say. “I trust you.”

His expression softens into something that makes my heart flip. “Even after everything?”

“Because of everything,” I answer honestly, reaching up to brush my thumb across his cheek. “You’ve seen the worst parts of me, and you’re still here.”

Andrew reaches for his overnight bag on the floor beside the bed, rummaging through it before producing a small bottle oflube and a condom. He catches my raised eyebrow and a blush creeps up his neck.

“Always be prepared?” I ask.