Page 68 of Fault Line

I cross my arms tightly over my chest. “Yeah, well, it looked like you were doing just fine without me here.”

“That’s what this is?” His brows shoot up. “You’re seriously jealous of me talking to some random girl for, like, thirty seconds?”

“No, you can do whatever you want,” I say, working to keep the hurt from my voice.

“Kaia, come on.” He takes a step closer, presses a hand to my shoulder. “You know me better than that.”

“Do I?” I ask, looking up at him. “We never made any promises to each other. We agreed to keep things casual, remember?”

“Kaia,” he murmurs again, low and soft this time.

“What?”

“That girl in there is my teammate’s girlfriend. And I don’t give two shits about her.”

“Oh.”

“But Idocare about you, and I’m glad you showed up tonight after all. I wanted to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“I had this whole speech planned, actually,” he says. “And then when you said you weren’t coming, I kinda threw it all out the window.”

“Oh God, is this some sort of breakup speech?” I ask, panic wriggling in the pit of my stomach. “Because you know we’re not even really together, right?”

“But that’s the thing. We could be.”

I rear back. “What?”

“I think about you when we’re apart. All the goddamn time.” He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, cupping my jaw. “Do you think about me?”

“Beck ...”

“Just answer the question.”

“Yeah, I think about you,” I say softly, flushing at the admission.

He smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes my knees weak. “Good to know.”

“Is that all?” I ask, struggling to keep my emotions in check.

“No.” He takes a step closer, tips my chin up with his thumb. “I’ve been thinking, and I want more for us. I think we’re already headed in that direction, but I want to make things crystal fucking clear. I want you, Kaia. And it’s for more than just sex, or ... for good banter when I’m bored. Do you feel the same?”

I swallow hard, heart pounding in my ears. “Y-you know it wouldn’t work between us, though.”

“It would,” he insists.

“But I’m ... me, and you’re you, and we just, we argue too much.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice soft but firm.

“It does.”

He shakes his head. “You’d be bored if we didn’t.”

“You’re the one who’ll get bored of me.”

His expression softens. “Is that what you think?”

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