I freeze.
She steps closer, folding her arms. "You don't think he feels this? That he wants more? Madison, babe, I love you, but I don't know how much longer he's gonna wait for you to figure your shit out."
My stomach clenches. The thought of Jaxon with someone else sends a cold wave of something too close to panic through me. I've spent so much time worrying about losing him because I took a chance, I never considered I might lose him because I didn't.
"I just… I don't want to hurt him," I whisper.
Lyla's expression softens. "And maybe that's exactly what you're doing."
Her words hit me right in the chest, and suddenly, it feels hard to breathe.
Because I don't know what scares me more—the idea of letting myself act on the feelings I have for Jaxon, or the idea that by holding back, I might already be losing him.
My own fear might be causing the very thing I'm terrified of.
The next couple of weeks after the almost-kiss pass in a blur of routine, avoidance, and a constant war in my head.
Jaxon and I don't talk about what happened—not in class, not in the library during tutoring sessions, not through the occasional texts we send each other. We fall into our usual patterns—him showing up to class looking obnoxiously good in sweats and a hoodie, me pretending I don't notice. Him helping me with math, smirking every time I get frustrated, me shoving his shoulder and telling him to shut up.
It's all normal.
Except, it's not.
Because every time he leans too close during tutoring, every time his hand brushes mine when he passes me a pencil, every time I catch him looking at me for a second too long before he quickly looks away—I feel it: that electric current passing between us, stronger now that we've acknowledged it, even if only for a moment.
And it's driving me insane.
There are moments when I'm sure I've imagined the whole thing, that the tension between us is all in my head. And then, he'll do something—lean in close to explain a problem, his voice dropping low near my ear, or text me at 2 AM just to say he saw something that reminded him of me—and I know it's real. I know I'm not alone in this.
I've spent the past few weeks convincing myself that not acting on my feelings is the right decision. Keeping things the way they are is safer. I'm protecting myself, protecting him. The risk of losing what we have is too great.
But deep down, I'm starting to be a lot less sure that's the right answer. My certainty wavers more each day, especially when Icatch those fleeting glances that suggest he's thinking about what almost happened too.
Tonight, though, it's time to let loose.
It's bye week for the team, so no game this weekend, which means one thing—there's a massive party at the football house, and Lyla and I are going.
I smooth my hands down my outfit, glancing at my reflection as Lyla finishes curling the last strand of her hair beside me.
"Damn, girl." She smirks, eyeing me in the mirror. "You're really going for it tonight, huh?"
I roll my eyes, even though I know she's right. I spent too long debating what to wear, knowing Jaxon would be at this party, knowing I'd be near him, around him. In the end, I settled on something I knew would get his attention—high-waisted jeans that hug me in all the right places, a cropped tank that's just this side of flirty, and my usual oversized cardigan to balance it out.
Because if I'm going to keep fighting these feelings, I might as well make him suffer too.
The outfit is a contradiction—sexy but safe, revealing but protected—mirroring the exact battle happening inside me. Part of me wants him to notice, to react, to make a move that forces my hand. The other part hopes he doesn't, because then, I won't have to make a choice.
"It's just a party," I say, swiping on some lip gloss before tossing it into my bag. "No big deal."
Lyla hums, giving me a knowing look as she pulls on her heeled boots. "Sure, babe. Whatever you say."
I roll my eyes again, but I don't argue, grabbing my phone as we head out the door.
The house is packed. Music blasts from the speakers, bass vibrating through the floor. People are crammed into the kitchen,spilling into the backyard, red solo cups in hand, laughter and conversation blending into the noise.
I take a slow breath, scanning the crowd, pretending like I'm not looking for a certain six-foot-two wide receiver.
But of course, my eyes find him immediately, just like they always do.
