Page 28 of Because I Liked A Boy
Hunter’s sitting on the edge of my bed, elbows braced on his knees. My phone is plugged in on the night stand. A glass of water and a pack of painkillers sit neatly beside it. Even a bowl rests on the floor.
It’s the bowl that undoes me. Boys in London would’ve laughed, left me to fend for myself, maybe even bolted the second I swayed. But Hunter thought ahead—painkillers, water, a god damn bowl. No jokes. No expectations. Just quiet care, like it was the most obvious thing in the world to do. It makes something in my chest ache, because I can’t remember the last time anyone thought about me like that.
“You raided my kitchen?” My voice is hoarse.
His smirk tugs crooked. “What kind of asshole would I be if I let you crash without backup?”
My throat tightens. I cross to the bed and sink down beside him, close enough to feel his heat. “Thank you. For all of it.”
His grin tilts. “Careful, Princess. Keep saying nice things and I might think you like me.”
I roll my eyes, but when I lean in—aiming for his mouth—he shifts just enough that my lips graze his jaw instead.
“I want you to remember the first time I kiss you,” he murmurs, so soft I almost think I imagined it.
The words sober me faster than water ever could. Out loud, he says more firmly, “Not tonight, Isabella.”
It stings, but not like rejection. More like restraint. Part of me bristles at the control in his tone. Another part—deeper, darker—likes that he’s the one drawing the line when I can’t. Both truths sit heavy in my chest, and I don’t know which one scares me more.
I bite my lip, whispering, “Then stay. Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone.”
His smirk softens into something I’ve never seen on him before. “Relax, Princess. I’m not going anywhere.”
He stretches out on top of the covers, leaving space. I slide closer, tucking into his side before I can second-guess it. His arm curves around me, solid and sure, cedar and smoke wrapping me warm.
The steady thud of his heart beats beneath my ear, and for the first time in months, my body unwinds. It feels dangerous, this ease. Like I’ve slipped into something I swore I’d never want again—safety. I should pull back, remind myself he’s just a boy, just a friend, just anotherrisk I can’t afford. But I don’t. I can’t. Because right now, with his heartbeat steady under my ear and cedar wrapping around me like armour, I finally let myself close my eyes.
If Ruby saw me like this—tucked under Hunter’s arm, letting him carry some of the weight I swore I’d hold alone she’d call it dangerous. Maybe it is. But tonight, danger feels a lot like safety. And that terrifies me more than anything.
And just before sleep drags me under, I hear it—so soft I almost miss it.
“I want you to remember me for the right reasons.”
Maybe Hunter Hayes isn’t the boy I thought he was.
New Beginnings
The first thing I feel when I wake up is my skull splitting in half.
The second is disappointment when I reach across the bed and find nothing but cold sheets.
Hunter’s gone.
Of course he is.
The sheets are twisted, cold where his body should’ve been. My throat tightens, stupidly disappointed, even though I told myself not to expect him there in the first place. A faint trace of cedar and smoke still lingers on the pillow beside mine — proof he didn’t just vanish out of thin air, proof he’d actually been here. He folded the blanket I kicked to the floor. Straightened my phone cord so it wouldn’t tangle. Stupid, tiny things that no one’s done for me in years.
It’s infuriating, how he makes himself unforgettable without even being in the room.
The water, the painkillers, the phone plugged neatly on my night stand — reminders he’d been here. Proof he cared enough to look after me, but not enough to stay. Not arms I can fall back into.
I swallow the pills, chase them with water, and stumble to the en suite.
The shower is a mercy. Steam scrubs away tequila but not the ache in mychest. My brain won’t stop replaying his words: Not tonight, Isabella.
Friends. That’s what he said. But we’ve been circling each other for months now—sniping, sparring, stealing glances I pretended not to notice. Friends don’t look at each other like that. Friends don’t leave you water and painkillers like it matters. He didn’t mean friends. He meant patience. Restraint. A line I’m not sure how long either of us can hold.
By the time I towel off, my head feels clearer but my chest worse. I knot the fabric under my arms and push into my bedroom—
