Page 13 of Well That Happened

My throat tightens. Caleb’s not just sweet—heseespeople. Even when they don’t want to be seen.

Then he adds, lips quirking, “For what it’s worth, he’s not madatyou. Just mad there’s something he can’t control.”

I glance at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugs, easy and warm. “Nope. Just figured you deserved to hear that.”

God, he’s charming.

And dangerous.

And probably the exact kind of soft place I would want to fall when everything else is spiraling.

Which is exactly why I say, “About the other night…”

His brows lift, looking a little hopeful. “Yeah?”

“I think… maybe we shouldn’t. I mean—finish what we started.”

A beat. Then he nods. Easy. No pressure. “Because of Hunter?”

“That,” I admit. “And also just… this is complicated. I’m living here. I don’t want to make things messier than they already are.”

“Totally fair.” He kicks back in his chair, stretches his legs. “Doesn’t mean I won’t flirt with you, though.”

I groan. “You’re impossible.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

We fall into an easier silence. He steals a fry. I let him.

After a while, he asks, “You want to study?”

“Really?” I ask.

He nods. “I’ve got an econ assignment due tomorrow. And if you need someone to quiz you on flashcards or whatever, I’m your guy.”

I hesitate. Then nod.

Because this? It’s good. Safe. Something I need more than I realized.

“Come on,” he says after dinner. “Grab your stuff; we can study in my room.”

I blink. “Okay.”

He grins. “Trust me. Comfiest place in the house.”

I haven’t seen his room, but now I’m curious.

I follow him upstairs, grab my backpack, and check my appearance in the mirror above the dresser. I pull my hair from the bun and let it fall over my shoulders. Dark brown waves that I try to tame with my fingers. I swipe under my eyes—just in case—and smooth the hem of my sweatshirt.

The oversized clothes don’t hide much. Not with leggings clinging to every curve and bare feet padding softly over the hardwood floor.

I head to the end of the hall to his room, which is warm and lived-in without being gross. It smells like clean laundry and something that might be sandalwood—comfortable and distinctly him. The walls are a deep gray, one corner lined with battered books and a lopsided trophy shelf. His bed is king-sized and covered in a dark blue comforter, the kind that looks soft enough to live in.

There’s a pair of hockey gloves on the floor, a hoodie slung over the back of a desk chair, and an old acoustic guitar in the corner that I wouldn’t have guessed he played.

He clears a few stray socks off the bed, tossing them into a hamper. “Make yourself at home.”

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