Page 105 of Guarded Love

“Honestly, nothing major to report,” I say, fighting the urge to prop my phone on my face and close my eyes. “We’re both busy and don’t want to anyone to run and tell Knox. That’s the deal.”

"That's smart," Ari says, though I can hear the disappointment in her voice. She loves drama that doesn’tinclude her almost as much as she loves solving other people's problems. "But seriously, after Puerto Rico and everything that happened between you two, I'm surprised you're managing to keep things so...casual."

Puerto Rico. Just thinking about it makes me wish I was back there. I haven't told Ari everything yet, but she knows enough. She knows everything changed there and now we’re just in this limbo of our own making.

"It's not casual," I say quietly. "It's just...careful."

"Careful can be good," she agrees. "But don't be so careful you miss out on something real."

I want to tell her that it already feels real. That the texts we send aren't just intellectual foreplay, but actual conversations that mean something to me. That I find myself checking my phone constantly, not for assignments or deadlines, but for his name on my screen. But that's exactly the kind of thing I can't say out loud. Not yet.

"Speaking of real," Ari continues, "we need to catch up properly. I feel like I haven't seen your face in forever. Want to grab lunch tomorrow?”

"Tomorrow sounds perfect," I say, already feeling a little lighter at the thought of seeing her. "I could use some normal human interaction that doesn't involve pretending I'm fine when I'm not."

"Good. I’ll text you. We can grab sandwiches, and you can tell me all the things you're not telling me right now."

"Deal. But I'm warning you, it might be boring."

"Honey, your life has never been boring. Complicated as hell, yes. Boring, never."

After we hang up, I let my phone drop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling. I should probably get up, take a shower, do something productive with what's left of the evening. Instead, I just lie here, too tired to move but too wired to actually fallasleep. My fingers reach for my phone again before I can stop myself. I know I should leave it alone and try to get some actual rest, but I'm already scrolling through my messages to find Blaise's name.

Our text thread is longer than it should be for two people who are supposedly keeping things casual. The timestamps show we've been messaging daily since we got back from Puerto Rico, sometimes late into the night when we should both be sleeping.

I scroll up to yesterday's conversation and feel my stomach tighten as I reread the exchange.

Blaise: How was your day? You seemed stressed in your last message.

Me: Just the usual first-week chaos. Nothing I can't handle.

Blaise: You know you don't have to handle everything alone, right?

Me: Says the guy who probably color-codes his stress levels.

Blaise: Only on Tuesdays.

Me: Such a smartass.

Blaise: You like it when I'm a smartass.

Me: Maybe. Depends on the context.

Blaise: What context are you thinking about right now?

That's where the conversation had shifted. Where the playful banter took on a different turn that made my pulse quicken even now, reading it again.

Me: Wouldn't you like to know.

Blaise: I would. Very much.

Me: Then you'll have to use your imagination.

Blaise: My imagination has been working overtime since Puerto Rico. It's becoming a problem.

Me: What kind of problem?

Blaise: The kind that makes it hard to concentrate in practice. The kind that makes me think about your hands when I should be thinking about defensive strategies.

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