Page 42 of Full Tilt
“You’re dying to say something. I’ve been a moody arsehole all night. Might as well let you get it over with.”
His expression shifts, but not into the exasperated glare I was expecting. Not disappointment or frustration. No. Hesmiles. It’s soft, even, practically bloody serene. How someone with a lip ring, an eyebrow piercing, and a constellation of hoops in one ear can look serene is beyond me, but somehow, he manages it.
Then, casually, like we’re talking about nothing more than a cup of tea, he says, “I’m happy to go home with you.”
I swerve slightly, correct immediately, and swallow hard. “Jesus,” I mutter, hands re-tightening on the wheel.
“But not,” he says, his grin growing, “if it’s going to get us in a car wreck.”
I breathe out, sharp and shaky. My shoulders still haven’t unclenched. I should let it go. Should let him laugh it off and move on. But the question builds, hot and itchy under my skin.
I glance at him again. Not for long, but enough to catch that same calm, interested expression he’s had since he first slid into the car, like nothing I’ve done tonight has put him off. “Why?”
Brent blinks. “Why what?”
“Why the hell are you giving me the time of day?”
He says nothing.
So I push on. “I’ve been a dick. Snapped at you. Ignored you. I’m grumpy. Moody. Complicated. And tonight—” My jaw tightens. “Tonight I’ve been fucking awful. So why?”
The car hums beneath us. Streetlights flash by in slow, golden intervals. Outside, everything’s still. Quiet. Inside, I’m coiled so tightly I feel like I could snap. Then I glance his way again.
He looks at me like I’m not scaring him. Like I’m not pushing him away. Like none of what I’ve said has put so much as a dent in his certainty. And that smile’s still there. Steady. Warm. No rush. No bullshit.
He shifts slightly in his seat, turns more towards me. His voice is low—not pitying, not soft, just real. “Because you showed up,” he says. “Because you lead. Because you care about your teammates even when they’re a drunken mess. Because you hauled one of them across a car park and into his house without complaint and, despite what you think, without real judgement. Because you didn’t throw me under the bus for helping. Because you take the weight even when it’s too heavy.”
My throat closes.
He keeps going. “And yeah, you’re grumpy. And guarded. And you’ve got moods like weather fronts. But you also stayed. You sat with me. You invited me. And you didn’t have to.”
He pauses before saying, “I like people who don’t pretend. And I think you’re not pretending. Even when you’re being a bit of a prick.”
I bark out a laugh that feels like a release valve cracking open. Then it hits me again—this bone-deep ache, because I don’t see myself the way he does. I don’t feel like someone worth the effort. I feel like a man who’s constantly trying not to drown in the mess of his own overthinking. Who keeps people out because letting them in means getting hurt. Again.
But Brent? He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. He just stays—with me, in this space that I don’t let many people into—and that’s what wrecks me most of all.
The quiet stretches, thick between us, until the road bends towards home and my building comes into view. I pull up out front, the engine humming low as the car idles, and suddenly it hits me. I brought him here. Home. With me.
And I’ve got no fucking clue what I’m meant to do next.
Brent unclicks his seatbelt like it’s no big deal, like this is just what we do.
My pulse is in my throat.
Seriously, what the fuck am I supposed to do with him now?
I know what I want to do. Or rather, what I want him to do to me. Which—Jesus—isn’t helping matters. I can barely think. My brain’s stopped making useful thoughts and instead loops through vague flashes of skin, of that lip ring grazing across my neck, of his mouth opening against mine?—
Get a grip.
But when I glance over at him, he’s already out of the car, calm as anything. Cool air floods in when I open my door, and I scan the street automatically. My eyes do a sweep: down the road, across the opposite pavement, into the gaps between the buildings. No flashes. No shadows. Just the low hum of quiet streets and an occasional parked scooter.
Good. No press. Not tonight.
I nod towards the entrance. “Come on.”
He falls in beside me, hands in his pockets like we’re just two mates walking home after the pub. There’s no tension, no awkwardness, just Brent—unshakably Brent.
