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Rilee

The knock is soft.

Then Caleb’s voice, “Hey. You decent?”

I crack the door and peek out. “Do sweats and damp hair count?”

His grin is immediate. “That’s my favorite look.”

I roll my eyes and let him in. He’s holding a hairbrush and two scrunchies.

“I come bearing tools.”

I raise a brow. “You’re gonna brush my hair?”

He shrugs. “You couldn’t even put on socks this morning without nearly falling over. Sit.”

I do.

He settles on the bed behind me, legs on either side, and gently starts pulling the brush through my hair.

It’s quiet. Peaceful.

Every time the brush snags, he’s gentle. Every time I shift, he steadies me. His fingers are warm when they slide through to detangle the ends.

“You okay?” he asks after a minute.

I nod. “Just tired.”

“From the ankle? Or the lying-to-your-brother stress spiral?”

“Both,” I admit.

He hums softly, then sets the brush down and gathers my hair loosely, twisting it up into a quick bun. It’s messy. Imperfect. But it feels like care.

Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to the crown of my head. “We’ll get through this, Ri. I’ve got you. Always.”

And I swear—my heart actually stutters.

“Thanks, Caleb,” I whisper, turning my head to look at him.

His eyes soften. “Anytime, princess.”

A knock interrupts us again.

It’s Hunter.

He stands in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his jeans, expression unreadable.

“Can I… talk to Rilee for a sec?”

Caleb’s quiet for a beat. Then he nods once. “Sure.” He stands, touches my shoulder, and gives me a wink before brushing past Hunter on his way out.

Hunter doesn’t move for a moment.

Then he steps in and closes the door behind him.

He doesn’t sit.

Doesn’t look at me right away.

Just stands there like he’s trying to decide which version of himself to be.

“I heard you got dizzy in the shower earlier,” he says eventually.

“I stood too fast. Not a big deal.”

He frowns. “You need to be careful.”

I cross my arms. “You didn’t come in here to lecture me about blood pressure.”

He sighs. “No. I didn’t.”

I wait.

And he… stalls.

Fusses.

Steps forward and kneels to check the ace wrap on my ankle, even though it’s exactly how he left it earlier.

“You’re still mad,” I say quietly.

He looks up. “I’m not mad.”

“Then what?”

He stands again. “I don’t know. I just…” He runs a hand through his hair. “You kissed me. And then we never talked about it. And now you’re pretending to date Caleb, and I’m supposed to act like that’s fine.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. Because the tension between us is twisting tighter by the second.

Hunter sits down on the bed beside me.

His hands are clenched in his lap, like he’s holding himself back from setting fire to the room.

“If you think I have any idea what I’m doing…” I whisper, “you’re wrong. I just don’t want Fletcher to freak out about…” I hesitate. “Everything.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy,” he says, voice low.

He doesn’t move for a beat.

Then he turns toward me—eyes searching mine.

Then without warning, his mouth crashes into mine with heat and hunger and frustration and need.

Like he’s been holding this back for too long and finally lost the strength to fight it.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me to him as if he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

His other hand curls around my hip, fingers digging in like he’s memorizing the shape of me through touch alone.

And I melt.

Completely.

It’s years of tension detonating in a single, blistering moment. Literal years of watching him quietly from the sidelines and hating myself for my stupid crush on him—that clearly was never reciprocated.

I’ve imagined this kiss more times than I can count—but it’s even better than I ever dared to hope. It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

And then—it’s over.

He pulls back like the contact burned him.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he mutters, voice wrecked.

I’m breathless. Spun out. Barely holding it together.

But I touch his hand and whisper, “Maybe it is.”