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But I couldn’t. “It was like my body was rejecting everything. The roll, the funeral, the—” Punishing me. “I thought it would be just that once.”

But it became a pattern. A ritual.

Now, the smell of cinnamon alone makes me want to throw up.

“I didn’t—” I can’t. I can’t tell him about the garage. Bile rises in my throat. I have to?—

“Hey.” Brandon’s hand lands on my shoulder, warm and steady. “I’m here.”

I nod and take a deep breath, the nausea slowly receding. What if he disappears again? “No touching, remember?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest as he drops his hand. “My bad.”

I stare at the half-eaten wrap on my plate, the hunger that gnawed at my stomach moments ago replaced by a heavy, sinking feeling, but I also don’t feel like scraping it out of me. I set the plate on the coffee table.

“Brandon…” My voice wavers, and I hate it. Hate the vulnerability, the neediness. But I can’t help it. Not with him. Not anymore, it seems. Because the alternative… The cold, the emptiness, the hollow ache in my chest… It’s worse. So much worse. “Can I… Can we break it? Just one more time?”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t need to. It’s there in the way his eyes soften, the way his hand twitches like he wants to reach for me. But he doesn’t. Because he knows. He knows me, knows what I need, even when I don’t know myself.

I climb into his lap before I can overthink it. His body tenses as I tuck my head into the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, chasing the cinnamon away. My muscles relax as his warmth seeps into me.

His tone is coarse, wavering slightly. “What happened to no touching?”

“Consider it another exception.” I burrow deeper into his chest. “Hold me.”

Brandon exhales slowly, his arms encircling me in slow motion. One hand traces soothing patterns up and down my spine while the steady thump of his heartbeat under my ear drowns out the memories, the guilt, and the constant noise in my head.

I feel… safe.

SIXTEEN

NAOMI

The club pulses around me, all neon lights and bass beats that vibrate through my bones. I trace the rim of my vodka soda, watching condensation bead on the glass while Blake and Serena are already three shots deep, arguing about Serena’s latest conquest.

“I’m just saying,” Serena gestures with her martini, “Kevin’s different.”

Blake snorts. “That’s what you said about James. And Tyler. And what’s-his-name with the yacht.”

“At least I keep them longer than a night.” Serena’s perfectly manicured nail points at Blake. “When’s the last time you had a repeat performance?”

“Because I don’t want repeats.” Blake signals for another round. “Less drama that way.”

“Oh really?” Serena’s attention swings to Blake’s newest shadow lurking in the next booth. “So, you’re not fucking your new bodyguard?”

I tune out their bickering, pushing the ice in my drink around with my straw. The music pounds through my skull, but it’s better than being alone with my thoughts tonight. I lean backagainst the plush booth,check my phone, and, of course, find a message.

Brandon: Miss me yet, cupcake?

Do I miss him? The memory of his warmth, his scent, the way his arms felt around me… it’s all too fresh, too raw. But admitting that feels like surrender. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my fingers are already moving, tapping out a response.

Naomi: You wish.

Brandon: Careful. Wishing is a dangerous game.

It’s been a week since the night at Brandon’s, and I’m starting to think maybe I fucked it all up. That last exception, the way I clung to him like a drowning woman, wasn’t just breaking the no-touching rule, it was breaking something deeper, something fragile and unspoken between us.

“Earth to NayNay.” Blake waves her hand in front of my face. “You’re doing that thing again.”

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