My boy / Drew Starkey

36

Mila

I shouldn't be thinking this. I shouldn't be looking at his lips and remembering how they felt on mine. But I can't stop myself.

"Drew, honestly, it's okay," I say, my voice softer than I intended, almost breaking under the weight of everything unspoken.

His eyes soften, just slightly, and it's enough to make my heart twist. I shift on the couch, turning to face him completely. My legs curl beneath me as I do something reckless—I reach for his hand.

His hand is warm, and when my fingers close around it, I feel a jolt that makes me catch my breath. My skin tingles where we touch, and I know I should let go, but I don't. Instead, I give his hand a gentle squeeze, grounding myself—or maybe holding onto him for just a moment too long.

"I promise you, you have nothing to be sorry about," I say, trying to sound convincing, though my chest feels tight. "Like you said, it's an innocent photo. What? Two people can't just be friends?" I force a small smile, trying to ignore the way my voice wavers.

His eyes meet mine, searching, and then they flicker down—to my lips.

My heart stumbles. Now I'm hyper-aware of every movement, every word, every breath.

"I promise," I whisper again, my voice barely audible now. "You didn't do anything wrong."

But as the silence stretches between us, charged and heavy, his gaze lingers, and so does mine. The space between us feels too small, and for one dangerous second, I wonder what would happen if I closed it.

"I want to kiss you," he says softly, like the words slipped out before he could catch them. Like they weren't meant to leave his mouth but did anyway.

I freeze, staring at him, my mind racing. Did I hear that right? Am I imagining things?

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he blurts, pulling his hand away from mine so quickly it feels like a jolt. My hand feels cold, empty, and bare without his touch. But all I can think is: did I really just hear that? Did he actually say he wanted to kiss me?

"I'm truly sorry, Mils. I didn't want any of this to get so out of hand," he says, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Everyone's saying awful things about you, and I don't know how to fix it. I'll post a photo with my girlfriend, address all the rumors, and hope it dies down."

There it is again. My girlfriend. Hearing him say it makes my chest tighten, and this time, it's like he's saying it to himself as much as to me. A reminder. A line in the sand.

"Yeah, actually, you should do that," I reply, the words sharper than I meant them to be. "A photo of you and your girlfriend"—I emphasize the word, letting it linger—"should definitely fix this whole thing."

The edge in my voice surprises even me, but I can't help it. Why does it sting so much? Why does it feel like he's playing some sort of game I don't understand?

He flinches, just slightly, but I don't back down. I'm pissed. Not because he said anything wrong—he does have a girlfriend—but because saying that after I want to kiss you feels insane.

What is he doing? What am I doing?

And why the hell do I still want him to kiss me?

"We should invite someone else here," he says quickly, the words tumbling out in a way that feels like he's grasping for an escape hatch.

Wow. Does he not want to be alone with me that badly? Damn.

I take a moment to process, the sting settling in my chest, but I don't let it show. Instead, I bite back, my voice steady and just sharp enough. "Yeah, I was just about to suggest that. I'll call Rudy to come over."