Page 82 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

My fingers hover over the keyboard as I stare at his message.

What do I even say?

His message lights a little candle of warmth in my chest and I swallow thickly. It’s simple, thoughtful — exactly what I need but don’t deserve right now.

I start typing, my fingers trembling slightly.

Thanks, Connor. I’m fine, just had something come up. Appreciate you checking in.

I pause, rereading the words. It feels wrong, like I’m brushing him off when he’s only trying to help. I delete the text and try again.

Hey, I’m okay. Just needed some air today. Sorry for making you worry.

Another pause. The truth is, I don’t know if I’m okay. My thumb hovers over the send button, but I hesitate. Connor’s message is sweet and thoughtful but it also feels like an obligation I’m too exhausted to meet right now.

With a sigh, I delete the message entirely and lock my phone. Not now. I can’t deal with him and Thatcher and everything else swirling in my head.

The stall door creaks as I push it open, stepping back into the bathroom.

Thatcher leans casually against the sinks, his arms crossed and his posture infuriatingly relaxed. Like he’s just waiting for the bus, not lurking in the women’s bathroom like some unbothered predator.

He glances at my hands. One’s holding my phone and the other has my wet underwear. I shove my underwear into my pocket as irritation flares in my chest. I walk to the sink and wash my hands, ignoring him.

“This is the women’s bathroom, you know?” I say, my voice sharp as I glare at the running water. “Can’t I have a little privacy?”

He doesn’t respond but I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my face, heavy and unrelenting. My irritation bubbles to the surface as the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, until it feels like the entire room is holding its breath.

I glance at him through the mirror, my eyes narrowing as they meet his. For the first time, his customary infuriating smirk is absent, replaced by a look I can’t quite place—intense, unnerving… like he had finally let the mask he constantly wore drop.

The change unsettles me more than I’d like to admit. My irritation falters, replaced by an unease that coils in my stomach.

“What?” I snap, a desperate attempt to calm my anxiety.

He doesn’t reply, instead his head tilts slightly, as if studying me.

“Who were you texting?” he asks, his tone even but carrying an edge, an edge that sends a shiver down my spine.

I stiffen, my fingers gripping the edge of the sink. “Texting? None of your business,” I shoot back, turning my gaze away from him and focusing on the water droplets clinging to my hands.

“None of my business?” he repeats, his voice dipping lower, his voice devoid of any trace of amusement. “Everything about you is my business, Dove.”

I whirl around to face him, my frustration bubbling over. “If that’s so then you should know that the campus thinks it was you that night,” I snap.

He smiles. A genuine beautiful infuriating smile that reaches his eyes. He thinks this is funny.

“Little do they know, Dove.”

My heart slams against my ribs. My face starts heating up under his laugh. “People are creating theories, Thatch. This isn’t a simple situation anymore.”

“Who the fuck are you texting?” he presses, his voice quieter but no less commanding.

“Fuck the text, Thatcher,” I warn. “We have much bigger problems to handle.”

But, of course, he doesn’t think so, or maybe he just doesn’t care. His hand moves faster than I can react, slipping into the pocket of my jeans and pulling out my phone.

“Thatcher,” I scoff, reaching for my phone. “What the hell!”

He points the phone at my face to unlock it. “Connor, huh?” he asks. His voice is calm. The tension in his posture multiplying as he scrolls through the screen. “Didn’t know you guys were so close.”

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