Page 55 of Fault Line

At the end of the night, as I finally slip back beneath the covers of my bed, the weight of Holden’s absence presses down on me, the familiar ache of desire building from within. But it’s still not enough for me to text him now—not two nights in a row, at least—begging him to lull me to sleep after a full day at the rink.

He’s probably fucking exhausted, working through his own adrenaline crash, and doesn’t need to use his free time catering to my needs.

Instead, I’ll have to spend another lonely Saturday night fending for myself.

* * *

On Monday morning,I step into our Calc class, feeling more than unsettled. I’m not sure what to expect or how to act around Holden now, especially not after the way I begged him to fuck me the last time I saw him.

But what I do know is that, for the last thirty-six hours, it’s been nearly impossible to scrub the memory of his touch out of my head.

Thankfully, Elio’s back in class today, and I throw myself into our whispered conversations, trying to ignore Holden’s presence across the room. But even as I focus on my friend’s words—his half-hearted apology for being MIA last week—Holden’s gaze burns into me.

It’s like he’s dropping not-so-subtle hints, trying to ensure I don’t forget the way he’s claimed my body for the past three weekends in a row. A casual reminder that, beyond the confines of the lecture hall, I belong to him in one way or another.

All week long, he continues to steal glances at me, and I can’t deny the slight thrill I feel every time our eyes meet. Nevertheless, I’m also irritated beyond belief. We haven’t talked or interacted outside of class since that night, and I’m not so sure that I even want to.

It feels unnatural to avoid him now but even more strange to purposefully seek him out.

By the end of the week, I’m starting to feel restless. Unmoored. I can’t stop thinking about having another repeat of Saturday night, but the thought of initiating our time together fills me with dread.

It makes me feel desperate. Clingy. Undesirable, in a way.

Even though I was the one who struck our initial agreement—per his adamant request. I send the signals, and Holden comes calling, ready and willing to serve my needs. Yet, there’s still a small, unnerving part of me that wants someone else to do the chasing.

It’s not that I’m completely clueless. Or insecure. I know that Holden wants me—he’s proven that much by now—but I’m still left wondering how far that desire reaches.

Does he think of me on nights he lies alone in bed? Does he wait and hope for my call? Or am I simply no more than an afterthought—on his mind when I’m in front of him but vanishing like adiabatic fog once I’m gone?

Because for me, that’s certainly not the case.

In fact, Holden’s been occupying more of my thoughts lately than I’m comfortable with. It’s total bullshit, now that I think about it. And exactly the reason I didn’t want a boyfriend in the first place.

My focus should be singular—finishing the first half of my dissertation, securing a stellar recommendation from my advisor, and then earning myself a spot in the graduate program of my dreams. I don’t have time for anything more, especially not when it comes to placating the golden boy.

Sure, I might like him a little more than I originally wanted to admit. There’s something about his presence over the last three years that’s been more than a simple annoyance.

As in, I would miss him if he disappeared off the face of the planet. And I’m also grateful for his willingness to help me out now. He’s good in bed, and I really fucking like the way he distracts me ... in a way that no one else seems to be able to.

But that’s it. That’s all there is to it.

It has to be.

* * *

On Friday morning,as class is wrapping up, Holden catches me outside of Weyerhaeuser. He falls into step beside me, his heated gaze sending a pang of unwelcome longing through my body.

“Karras,” he drawls, and my heart stutters at the sound of his voice.

Fucking annoying, isn’t it?

“Hey,” I say, attempting to keep my tone neutral. “What’s up?”

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. “So, the team’s traveling out of town this weekend for an away game. Won’t be around, just in case you needed me.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the tiny smile that tugs at my lips. “Thanks for the heads up.”

He looks at me then, his gaze raking over me. “But texting is always an option. And, you know, FaceTime’s also a thing,” he says, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

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