Page 39 of Collide
He shifts even closer, the side of his body brushing mine, his thigh warm where it presses against me.
The contact sends a flicker of heat straight through my chest.
“So,” he murmurs, his voice dropping slightly, “what do you write about?”
I’ve only ever talked about that with my mom. The fact that he even asks warms something in me.
“My life, mostly. Love,” I mutter, biting my lip. “Not that I really know anything about it. More about…wanting it.”
“You’ve never been in love?” he asks, voice gentle.
“No. Have you?”
“You could say that. But I think there are different kinds of love. Different people, different ways.”
I nod, my pulse quickening. “I’ll take your word for it.”
His smile curves, slow and sure. “Will you write about me?”
He doesn’t know that I already have. The words are buried in notebooks. Melodies strummed into a song that he unknowingly inspired the second we collided.
“Maybe.” My voice catches. “I’ll think about it.”
“I hope to hear it one day.” He winks.
His fingers shift, drifting across the space between us, brushing against the inside of my thigh—light, tentative, electric.
Slowly, he starts to trace small circles on my leg, just above my knee, the barest pressure against my skin.
My breath catches, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
“So what’s your passion?” My voice is thinner than I mean it to be, breathless from the way his fingers trace slow, dizzying circles.
He smiles—handsome, cocky,knowing—like he can feel exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Photography. Travel. Good food.” He shrugs, then pauses, his eyes never leaving mine. “And beautiful women,” he adds, voice dropping lower.
My heart thrums like a trapped hummingbird against my ribs. And wetness pools at my center, just for him.Fuck.
The world outside the window blurs into green and gray, but all I can feel is the way his fingertips dance across my skin, like a secret written in a language only we understand.
We spend the rest of the afternoon lazing on the sofa, lost in easy conversation. He mentions that his birthday is coming up. August 3rd, exactly a month before mine.
The way he talks about past birthdays, the places he’s traveled, the people he’s met, makes me realize how much life he’s lived compared to my sheltered existence.
There’s a charm in the way he recounts stories, a quiet confidence that makes me want to listen forever. His goofy senseof humor only adds to his appeal, grounding him in a way that feels both playful and steady.
There’s an irresistible pull between us, one I never expected to feel with a man his age. Maybe it’s because of everything I’ve been through—my grief, the pressure, the growing pains.
Maybe that’s why boys my age never resonated with me.
Alex reignites a flame I thought I’d snuffed out. He makes me feel like I can let go and fall into whatever this is.
Before he leaves, he lingers by the door, leaning up against it. His gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
“You and me, tomorrow?” he asks, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.
