Battle Scars

Untitled Part 18

The next morning Leah walks out of her room wearing a tight white tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination. My throat goes dry, and I have to force myself to keep my eyes on her face. She's not wearing a bra, and the thin fabric does nothing to hide the outline of her body. This isn't like her usual casual clothes—this feels deliberate. Calculated.

I grip my coffee mug tighter, feeling the heat searing through the ceramic. She's testing me. I can see it in the way her lips twitch into the barest hint of a smirk as she crosses the living room, her movements slower than necessary, almost languid. The flicker of amusement in her eyes tells me she's well aware of the effect she's having.

She sits down on the couch, leaning back with a relaxed, almost lazy posture. Her hair falls over one shoulder, and she looks at me, eyebrow raised like she's daring me to react. I keep my expression as neutral as possible, refusing to let her know she's getting under my skin.

"You look tense," she says, voice casual, almost innocent. She crosses her legs, the tank top riding up a bit to reveal a sliver of skin at her waist. It's like she's setting up a chessboard, piece by piece, waiting to see how I'll move.

"I'm fine," I reply, my voice rougher than intended. I clear my throat, focusing on keeping my gaze steady. "Just tired."

She hums, not convinced. "You sure? You seem... distracted."

She's pushing. She wants me to look, to slip up. This isn't just casual teasing—this is a challenge. I realize she's doing this on purpose, and something inside me shifts. If this is a game, then fine. I'm not going to let her win so easily.

"Not distracted," I lie smoothly, meeting her eyes without hesitation. "Why? Are you trying to distract me?"

Leah's eyes widen slightly at the boldness of my question, and I see a spark of something—curiosity, maybe interest. Her smirk deepens, and she leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her tank top shifts again, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to glance down.

"Wouldn't dream of it," she murmurs, her tone teasing, playful. But there's something underneath it—something challenging like she's daring me to break first.

"Well, that's a relief," I say, my voice low. I lean back against the counter, keeping my stance casual even though my entire body feels like it's on high alert. "Because I'd hate to think you're trying to throw me off my game."

Her smile turns into a full grin now, and she tilts her head like she's considering something. "And what game would that be, Jay?"

The way she says my name sends a jolt of something hot through my veins. She's definitely testing me, trying to see how far she can push before I crack. It's almost amusing—she thinks she has the upper hand here. She doesn't realize I'm just as stubborn as she is.

I let a slow smile spread across my face, leaning forward slightly. "The game where we see who breaks first."

Her eyes narrow slightly, a hint of a challenge in her gaze. "And what happens if I win?"

"I don't lose," I reply, my voice steady.

She lets out a breathy laugh, and it's almost musical. "We'll see about that."

It's a game now. A dangerous, exhilarating game of testing boundaries and seeing who caves first. Leah is pushing me, and I'm pushing back. I know it's probably not the smartest thing to do—I should be trying to keep my distance, keep things platonic, but something in me refuses to back down.

If she's trying to see what I'm made of, then fine. I'll show her.

Over the next few days, the game escalates. Leah starts wearing clothes that are a little tighter, a little more revealing, and I pretend not to notice even though my brain feels like it's short-circuiting every time she walks into the room. She makes comments—little jabs that toe the line between playful and flirtatious—and I throw them right back at her, matching her word for word.