12. Tobias
Chapter 12
Tobias
I know an asshole when I meet one—hell, I was practically the poster boy for it once.
My first few years at college were a blur of cheap shots at parties in the house I shared with Erik and Harry or buried deep in some nameless girl I wouldn't recognize in the daylight. I was reckless and allowed my dick to drive most of my decisions.
It was fun, but it was empty.
I've changed. I haven't been that guy for a long time—the one who allows his raging hormones to rule his brain. I still love women. I still crave sex, but it's different now. I want the heat, the feel of a woman's bare skin under my fingertips, the softness of thighs beneath my hands, and the way a woman melts and arches when you touch her just right.
But it's not enough; I need to feel more than the physical. I don't know what I'm searching for, but I know I need more than a warm body to lose myself in.
But this guy—Tate, or whatever the hell his name is—is a different breed of asshole altogether. I saw the way he was eye-fucking Amelia from where he stood next to me as if she were something shiny and new. Sure, she's beautiful—anyone with half a brain cell can see that, and she's got this energy about her that makes her stand out in a room, but she deserves so much more than some smug, self-satisfied prick who sees her as nothing more than a conquest.
Amelia is not the woman you fuck and forget.
Am I being slightly judgmental? Maybe. Do I give a single fuck? Not one.Because if I'm right—and I guarantee I am—then there's no way in hell I'm going to stand by and let anyone treat Amelia like she's less than what she is.
"So you had a good night?" I break the silence, keeping my eyes fixed on the road ahead.
"Yeah, it was fun."
"You been harassed much or just by that one guy?"
"You mean Tate?"
"Yeah."
"He wasn't harassing me. He's just a huge flirt. Kind of like you and the way you act around every woman I've ever seen you with," she fires back, and my eyes snap to hers, expecting her to crack a smile or laugh it off at least. But no, she's completely serious.
"I'm nothing like that guy!"
"Oh, please," she scoffs, rolling her eyes. "You flirt with anything that has a pulse, aside from me, of course. I'm the exception to the rule, but I guarantee if you could, you would." She's teasing, but something about the way she says it gets under my skin.
There's something about the idea of her that feels… off, wrong even. Or maybe not wrong at all, and that's what's throwing me. We're not related by blood, just by circumstance, but I've never let myself think about her like that. She's the one person I've always seen as off-limits; that line between us has always been there. And yet, here I am with the thought of her ever being more than my friend clawing at the edges of my mind.
Where in the hell did that thought even come from?
It's like my brain took a sharp left turn I wasn't prepared for, sending me full speed down a winding road of "what-ifs" and "this could never happen," while some traitorous voice in my head whispers, "But what if it did?"
"I've even seen you flirt with my mom," she adds, bringing me back to reality.
"What the fuck?" I whip my head back toward her, eyebrows practically hitting my hairline. "That's bullshit, and you know it."
"Okay, fine, maybe not my mom, but definitely with her friends. I've seen the way they look at you."
"What can I say? I like older women." I casually throw it out there, half expecting her to laugh and move on. She does, but the sound fades quickly, her fingers absently twisting a loose thread on her jeans while she gazes down into her lap. "Listen, Mills, I know you can handle yourself, but just be careful with guys like that."
She lifts her head, eyes narrowing as she holds my gaze, and for a moment, I forget I'm behind the wheel—my focus is entirely on her.
"Guys like what? Ones who are openly into me?"
"No, because any guy would be dumb not to want you."
Her eyes widen just a fraction before she slowly looks away from me and stares straight at the road ahead. I feel it—this energy shift, one I just forced upon us, and suddenly, my mouth feels like sandpaper. I clear my throat, my fingers flexing against the steering wheel as I grip it tighter.
"You can't exactly take him home to your mom." I shrug it off, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the road. "She'll lose her shit, and my dad will blame me for not stepping in."
The silence that follows is fucking loud.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her body angling away from me like she's trying to put as much distance as the car allows between us. The air from the vent rustles a few loose strands of her hair, sending them dancing across her face, but she doesn't brush them away; she just stares out her window like she's trying to burn a hole through the glass.
"How could I forget?" she eventually says, her voice cold. "This babysitting gig you've got going on means your ass is on the line if I dare to make my own choices."
"That's not what this is," I urge, trying to pull us back from whatever cliff we're racing toward. But she refuses to budge and continues to block me out.
"Okay."
That's all she says—just that one single word that lands like a well-aimed punch to the gut.
Is there any word more final than a woman's okay? Do I want my balls handed to me before I make it home? No to both.
So I shut my mouth, respect the invisible wall she just put up between us, and silently drive home.
When we finally reach the apartment, the quiet stretches on. I unlock the door, push it open, and Amelia walks in behind me without a word. But when her shoulder brushes mine, something inside me snaps. Before I can stop myself, I reach out for her, fingers curling around her delicate wrist. She freezes, staring at the spot where I'm holding her, and I can practically feel the tension leaving her body. I give her a gentle, playful tug, pulling her a little closer to me in an attempt to close the distance between us.
"Come on," I say, trying to manage a half smile, "you can't just stop talking to me forever, Mills. Do you know how awkward that's going to be? Living here every day in complete silence while you sit there thinking about all the ways I'm an asshole?"
"I'm fine, Tobias."
She hit me with both "okay" and "fine."
The twin pillars of dismissal.
"It's late, and I'm tired."
She tries to pull away from my grip, but I hold on, my fingers tightening just enough to keep her here.
"Just talk to me first," I plead, trying to tread carefully. "I hate going to bed on a fight. You know that."
It's a wound I don't dwell on, but it's there all the same.
The memory of my mother is more absence than presence—a hollow space where love should've been, shaped like a woman I can't remember.
Growing up with just my dad made me feel like an orphan in my own home, always craving the tiniest scrap of attention or some sign that I was more than a burden, yet despite everything, my love for him was unconditional. I couldn't help it. Even when it felt painfully one-sided, I clung to this hope—this desperate need to believe that he cared somewhere deep down in his blackened soul. I wanted to think that I mattered to him, that I wasn't invisible, and that I wasn't completely alone in this life.
I'd go to bed some nights, hoping he'd come by, even just to say goodnight. I'd lie there, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling, counting them over and over, wondering what kind of broken thing I must be for my own father to look at me like I was nothing.
As I got older, I promised myself that anyone I cared about would never have to wonder where they stood with me. They'd never go to bed feeling like they weren't enough.
And now here I am, standing in the shadow of that promise, holding Amelia's wrist as if it's an anchor that will keep her from closing herself off and leaving me on the other side of a wall I can't breach.
"Please, Mills," I loosen my grip, hoping she'll recognize my need for things to be okay between us.
"Fine, you wanna talk?" she says, crossing her arms and giving me that look—the one that screams, You asked for this, and I know I'm about to take a hit . "The only reason you're living with me is because you were forced into it. You drive me to work because you'd be the one blamed if anything happened. You try to keep me away from a perfectly nice, although, yes, maybe a little pushy guy because you're scared our parents would lose their shit if I ever took someone like him home. This whole situation? Emotional blackmail. You got a car out of it, and now you're stuck with me until I'm gone next year, and you can finally breathe again."
Ouch. Seriously, fucking ouch.
"Tell me right now that this is your anger talking and not what you actually feel."
I keep my gaze on her, searching her eyes for any sign that she'll refute it, but she only looks away.
"I love living with you, Mills. This—us—being here with you feels like home again, and not the home I grew up hating, but the one that I finally felt comfortable in after you tiptoed your way into my life."
How could she ever think I’m not happiest with her here, when being with her has always made it a little easier for me to breathe?
I turn and walk away toward the kitchen, needing to stop looking at her while she feels so distant.
"I get that our parents pushed this situation on us because you're new to the city, but I'm not here to babysit you or because I have to be, Amelia. I know you know that, so why are you putting me into a role you know I'm not playing?"
She follows me, hands planted on her hips, but something in her stance softens.
"Okay, maybe I'm overreacting a little, but I'm not a kid, Tobias, and I can make my own decisions about who I spend time with."
"I know that, Firefly. I just worry about you. That's all it is, and I haven't even thought about you leaving if you get a permanent position with the company."
I close the distance between us, needing to erase this rift, and she looks up at me, confusion darkening those chocolate eyes I know better than my own, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
The moment hits me like a surge, and my body immediately betrays me, cock stirring and making my blood heat with an ache I have no right to feel. It's wrong, and every instinct I have tells me so. Every moral fiber in my body screams at me to back away, but when her teeth catch that bottom lip, my mind spirals into places that should be locked away and buried six feet under where they can't poison what we are.
For one dangerous heartbeat, I forget everything—the boundaries, the rules, and why I shouldn't want her.
My hand moves on its own, reaching for her mouth like it has any right to be there, aching to drag that lip free with my thumb.
I catch myself a breath away from her skin, redirecting my hand to her shoulder in a touch that's supposed to be innocent but feels like a lie, because there's nothing fucking innocent about the images burning through my brain right now.
Brush it off. You're unsatisfied, that's all. You're desperate to lose yourself in someone without feeling hollow, and now you're imagining things that shouldn't even cross your mind because your dick brain is dominating your head brain.
"Go get some sleep," I manage, my tone rougher than I'd like.
Before I find out if you're ready to step over a line that's so heavily cemented between us that crossing it would crush everything we know.
"You'll feel better in the morning, and if you still want to yell at me, feel free, but just don't go to bed hating me, okay?" She simply nods, but my mind betrays me like the bastard it is, focusing on her mouth and torturing me with thoughts of her tongue sliding against mine.
Would she kiss me slowly, drawing out every stolen second, just to show me how wrong it would be? Or would she claim my mouth like it's already hers, fucking the truth right out of me until we're both choking on all the things we shouldn't want? Not that she wants any of this—it's all me, standing here with my twisted thoughts, already halfway to ruined just thinking about it.
I quickly rein myself in, gritting my teeth, disgusted that I'm even entertaining the idea because now I just fucking hate myself.
"I'll see you in the morning, Tobias."
"We're okay, yeah?"
"Of course we are," she says, and something tight in my chest finally releases its grip.
Even if she's furious, she'd still steady me if I asked her to, still tell me what I need to hear.
No one else in my life gets me the way Amelia does. Tessa might see most of me, but not all—not the parts I keep buried. Mills, though? She sees straight through to the bones of me. All the ugly parts and the broken pieces I try to hide—somehow, they all belong to her.
With her, it's never been anything less than everything.