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No, please don’t do that.

Nodding softly, she swooped past me, smelling like peach nectar, winter frost, and me. I watched her for a few beats as she bent over to rummage through my lower cabinets before scrubbing the image from my mind and heading toward the secondary bedroom.

Tara slept in here whenever she spent the night. There were boy band posters taped to the walls and a slew of knickknacks cluttered on the dresser and nightstand, while a meshing of cheap vanilla perfume and musty carpeting filled the air. As I fluffed the recently-washed bedcovers, I glanced at a photograph in a gilded frame that was leaning against the table lamp. It was a picture of Tara and I at the park about a year ago, sparring near the basketball hoops. The image was a candid shot, but deliberately captured—perfect lighting, with the setting sun streaking through tree branches, Tara in position, grinning ear-to-ear, and me standing across from her with the barest smile and a look in my eyes that reflected pure love.

I plucked the frame from the nightstand and studied it, wondering how I’d never noticed it before.

A priceless moment, frozen in time.

Halley was the photographer, no doubt, and my affection for her soared to dangerous heights.

I set the picture back down.

After taking a few minutes to change into dry loungewear, I made my way back into the kitchen, where a pot of water was close to boiling on the stove. Halley was propped up on her tiptoes, pulling items out of an upper cabinet. A slew of ingredients littered my lack of counter space. “What did you decide on?” I asked her.

“Hodge podge pasta.”

“What now?”

She sent me a sidelong grin. “You’ll see.”

She was in a perkier mood, thanks to Ladybug being found safe, which was always a double-edged sword.

When she was bright and happy, I was drawn to her laughter-lit smiles and the bounce in her step. When she was sullen and self-deprecating, I was desperate to scrub the soot off her skin and bring her back to life. It was a goddamn seesaw of destructive emotion, and she was tearing me in half.

Twenty minutes later, a giant bowl of penne pasta was brought to the table, served with toasted bread and butter. I eyed the concoction warily. “There’s green stuff in it.”

“Green beans. Eat them,” she ordered playfully, lighting one of my cedar-scented candles with a matchstick. “You should know that green stuff is good for you, given your fatherly duties and all.”

I scowled.

I hated green beans.

But since they were one of the few vegetables Tara loved, I kept my freezer stocked with those frozen vegetable medleys mixed with carrots and corn.

“The only protein you had on hand was chicken, so I sauteed it in butter, added some seasonings, parmesan, and a little cream cheese.” She shrugged, pulling out a chair and summoning me to do the same. “Best I could do.”

It smelled delicious, and I was going to eat the hell out of it, green beans and all.

As we settled in by candlelight and cedarwood, with Ladybug lying underneath the table waiting for scraps, I tried not to focus on how much this felt like a date. Halley looked so casual in her informal clothing, her hair a beautiful mess, face scrubbed clean and make-less, and a smile that refused to leave her perfect mouth. It was like she belonged here, in my apartment, at my kitchen table, her hair glimmering against the brassy light fixture overhead.

Clearing my throat, I shoveled forkfuls of food into my mouth and had to hold back the moan. “Damn,” I muttered through a bite.

“Good?” Her eyes were wide and waiting, the fork loosely dangling from her hand as she anticipated my reaction. “You like it?”

“I love it.”

Cooking for people was important to her. It meant a lot, and that softened all the hard edges that had been whittling me down lately. The more time I spent with her, the more my attraction grew. The more my attraction grew, the more I hated myself.

And the more I hated myself, the more I transferred those feelings of self-loathing onto her.

But then there were moments like this, tender and warm.

Organic smiles, easy conversation, and a connection that felt like it wasn’t solely based on physical draw. As the sexual attraction continued to bloom, so did this maddening nurturing feeling, like I’d be willing to move mountains for her, that I’d be content just holding her and washing away her pain until she found perfect solace in my arms.

Goddammit.

That was even worse. Unwanted attraction was deadly enough, but it was natural. With the right toxic blend of circumstances, it happened—I knew that from experience, given my own personal ordeal with Radley and Whit.

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