Page 27 of Because I Liked A Boy
I hate that it works. That the weight of his jacket feels less like charity and more like… protection. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t smirk, just keeps walking like keeping me warm was never a choice, only instinct.
We weave down the street together, my heels clicking uneven against the pavement, his steady grip keeping me upright. The town feels different like this—quiet, half-asleep, streetlamps buzzing against the dark. No whispers, no eyes tracking me, just the sound of his boots steady beside my uneven steps. It should feel small-town suffocating, but with his hand locked around mine, it feels almost safe. Like maybe Maplewood isn’t closing in on me tonight—it’s holding me up.
The town feels quieter than usual—store fronts dark, only the hum of neon from Ember still buzzing behind us. But every so often I catch him glancing at me, as if making sure I’m really still here.
When we reach my building, I stop at the steps, swaying slightly. His hand doesn’t let go.
“Door,” he prompts, nodding toward it.
I fumble with the keys, laugh slipping out sloppy and soft. “You’re bossy.”
“Only when I have to be,” he says, low enough that it sounds more like a promise than a joke.
The lock finally clicks. I lean against the door frame, breathing hard, tequila still buzzing through my veins. For the first time all night, the silence feels heavy, pressing. My throat works before the words escape, raw and unguarded.
“Don’t go. Please. I’m not ready to be alone yet.”
The words crack out before I can stop them, messy and too honest. Shame burns in my throat, but the thought of walking into silence without him is worse. I’ve kept everyone at arm’s length for months, yet with him standing there, I can’t stomach the emptiness waiting behind my door.
The plea hangs between us, raw and messy, but I don’t take it back.
For a long second he doesn’t move, jaw tight like he’s fighting himself. Then he exhales, low and rough, and steps past me into the flat. His shoulder brushes mine as he goes, bringing smoke and warmth with him. It hits me harder than it should—the sight of him inside my flat. My space has been mine alone for months, walls that kept everyone out, even Ruby most nights. And now Hunter Hayes, all broad shoulders and careless confidence, is here like he belongs. It’s disarming. Vulnerable. But the truth is, I don’t hate it.
I kick off my heels by the door, the floor still tilting beneath me. The shadows of the little living room feel bigger than usual, too quiet, too much space pressing in.
Hunter glances around, then turns back to me. “Go change. I’ll get you some water.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and head for the hall. But tequila has other plans. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m on my knees over the toilet.
The door creaks open. “Isabella?”
“Don’t,” I manage between breaths, mortified. “Don’t come in.”
He ignores me. A second later he’s crouched beside me, one hand sweeping my hair back, the other steady on my back. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tease. Just holds me through it, silent and steady until the worst passes. Part of me waits for the punchline, the smug “told you so” I’ve come to expect from him. It never comes. Hunter Hayes, the boy with a reputation carved in trouble, just kneels on a bathroom floor and holds me like I matter. Like I’m not a mess, but something worth staying for.
By the time I slump against the wall, my throat raw and stomach hollow, he’s running a wash cloth under cold water. He presses it to the back of my neck, knuckles brushing my skin.
“Better?” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it.
I shut my eyes, sighing. “A little.”
It shouldn’t feel intimate, him crouched on the tile holding my hair back. But it does. Too much. Every brush of his knuckles, every steady touch on my spine feels like it’s stripping away another excuse I’ve built to keep him out.
“Good.” He sets a glass of water in my hands, guiding it until I sip. His palm hovers under the glass like he doesn’t trust me not to drop it.
When I finally lean back, drained, his eyes stay on me, steady in a way thatmakes my pulse stumble.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “I did.”
When I finally lean back, drained, his eyes stay on me, steady in a way that makes my pulse stumble.
He helps me to my feet, steadying me when my legs wobble, and guides me down the hall. I expect some cocky comment, but he doesn’t give me one. Just quiet, just presence, just his hand a firm weight at my back.
By the time I change into the soft cotton shorts and oversized T-shirt he found for me, my cheeks are flushed, my hair a mess, and the room still spinning slightly. But at least I feel human again.
When I push my bedroom door open, he’s there.
