Page 97 of Good Graces

He rushed to get here, I think, and that’s kind of adorable.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I know I’m early. I showered after practice and figured . . . I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like sitting around at home.”

“Hey,” I echo, leaning against the frame. “No worries. I wasn’t busy.”

I want to let him in and pretend that nothing’s weird. That this is normal. But things are still a little uncertain.

We’ve had sex. We’ve kissed. We’ve shared space again. A few quiet moments that felt comfortable in a way they probably shouldn’t have. Yet, we haven’t had the real talk yet. The messy part. The part that either clears the air or burns everything down.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat. “First time here, huh?”

I step back to let him inside, and he hesitates—just briefly—before crossing the threshold. Like he’s still not sure what version of us he’s walking into.

“Yeah.” He glances around like he’s taking mental notes. “It’s . . . nice.”

He grins, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable, or at least not obviously so, but we’re both still trying to figure out what this is. Where we stand. What we’re supposed to be now.

“You wanna sit?”

“Yeah.” He nods once and then lowers himself onto the far end of the couch.

I sit, too, tucking my legs beneath me, and for a second, I can’t think of a single thing to say. That’s not the norm for me. I’m usually rife with snark or softness when it comes to him.

“When did you move out of the dorms?” he asks suddenly.

I jolt a little. “Right after freshman year. Jordan and Alyssa were looking for a third to split costs, and it just kind of worked out.”

His eyebrows lift. “Huh. Seems like something I should’ve known.”

I smile—small, tight. “There’s a two-year gap in your memory.”

His face twitches, just a flicker of something behind his eyes, and I regret saying it that way. It’s not a jab at my own choices or his absence, not really. It’s just true.

“Right,” he says quietly.

I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my sleeve, twisting it between my fingers. “They’re good girls,” I offer, filling the silence. “I like them. I just . . .” I trail off, my fingers stilling.

“You haven’t really let them in,” he finishes.

I glance up, surprised—but I shouldn’t be. Of course he’d read me like that. He always could. Warren doesn’t ask unless he already knows the answer. He sees through me like the glass isn’t even there.

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I haven’t.”

He nods, not judging, just listening. His fingers tug on the drawstrings of his sweatshirt, like he’s working up to something. I shift, curling tighter into the corner of the couch, trying to keep my voice light, even though my chest feels anything but.

“It’s just easier that way, I guess.”

“Yeah,” he says again, this time with the smallest tug of a smile. “I know the feeling. You should try, though. Give things a chance.”

I snort, trying to shake off the weight of it. “Like you try with your cousin?”

His mouth twitches. “We watched the Bobcats game together last weekend.”

“And you said it was weird.”

“Yeah, well,” he mutters. “Liam’s weird.”

“You’re weird.”

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