My Player Bestfriend (Book #1)

Chapter Six

We sat in his car for a while after the art show — just breathing, saying nothing.

Austin didn't push. He didn't speak. He just... sat there, letting the silence hold us like it wasn't awkward. Like it was normal.

Like he was normal.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

He looked at me. "What for?"

"For tonight. For Chad. For everything."

He shook his head. "Don't apologize for his crap."

I nodded, staring out the window. "You know, for a second I thought maybe he was different."

Austin was quiet for a moment, then:
"I hate that I almost let him hurt you just because I didn't want to seem jealous."

"You were jealous."

"I am jealous," he said. "But I was also scared."

That surprised me. "Scared of what?"

He paused, choosing his words. "Scared I already lost you. And scared that I don't deserve you."

My chest tightened. I wasn't used to this version of him — raw, vulnerable, stripped of the ego.

And I wasn't sure I knew what to do with it.

We ended up back at his place.

Not in the "I'm about to hook up with my almost-something-kind-of-boyfriend" way.
But in the "I'm exhausted and emotionally scrambled and need comfort" way.

Alex wasn't home, the house was quiet, and it felt safe in a way I didn't expect.

I changed into one of Austin's hoodies — oversized, warm, stupidly comfortable — and curled up on the couch while he made microwave popcorn.

It was the most domestic we'd ever been.

He flopped next to me with the bowl, his arm naturally falling around my shoulder like it'd always belonged there.

We didn't even watch the movie.

We just talked.

And laughed.

And somewhere in between making fun of bad Netflix dialogue and him tossing popcorn at my face — something shifted.

He looked at me. Really looked.

And kissed me.

Not like the last time. Not hungry or rushed or like he was trying to prove a point.

This one was soft. Careful.

It made my chest ache.

I let myself melt into it. Let myself believe, just for a minute, that this could be good.

Safe.

Ours.

But later — curled into him, my head on his chest, the hoodie now smelling more like us than just him — the fear returned.

Sharp.

Loud.

What are you doing?

You don't fall for boys like him.

You don't fall at all. You know what happens when you do.

I sat up a little, gently pulling away.

He looked over. "You okay?"

I nodded, but my hands were fidgeting. "I just... I think I should go."

"Wait, what?"

"I'm just tired. And I need my bed."

"Is this about earlier? About what I said?"

"No," I lied. "It's not that."

He sat up now too, brows furrowed. "Mary, if this is moving too fast, just say so."

"It's not even about you," I said. "It's me. I get close to people and then I freak out. I can't be the girl who loses herself."

"You're not losing yourself," he said softly. "You're just letting someone in."

"That's the part that scares me."

He didn't push. Just nodded, like he understood more than I expected.

"Okay," he said. "Go. I won't stop you. But just know — I'm not going anywhere. I'm not Chad. I'm not some mistake waiting to happen."

I met his eyes. "I want to believe that."

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Then let yourself."

That night, in my room, I laid in bed clutching his hoodie.

Still warm.

Still smelling like safety.

And maybe that was the problem.

Because when something feels that good, it's terrifying to imagine losing it.