19. Tobias
Chapter 19
Tobias
T his thing with Amelia—it's not just me.
Whatever tension is twisting itself between us, we're both tiptoeing around it. It's unspoken, but it's there, sparking up whenever we're close enough to feel it.
And I get it—there are a million reasons why crossing that line would be the worst possible idea. There's too much to risk, too much to lose, and we both know it.
But now that I know it's not just me?
That this pull isn't one-sided and she's fighting this just as hard as me?
Yeah, that changes the game.
I stand by the car, holding the door open as Amelia struggles to slip her heels back on, wincing each time she tries. Without a second thought, I take the shoes from her hands and offer my arm. She steps onto the sidewalk, balanced on her tiptoes like some barefoot princess avoiding the cold concrete. After closing the door and watching the Uber disappear, I hand her shoes back.
I turn, crouching in front of her. "Get on."
She doesn't hesitate—just hooks her arms around my neck and jumps, her legs wrapping around my waist as she settles against me. Her shoes dangle against my chest, tapping lightly with each step I take. I adjust my grip, my hands holding her thighs tightly, pressing her to me as I feel her warmth through the thin layer of her jeans.
It's borderline torture, having her this close. These fucking jeans are my enemy right now—a cruel barrier between my hands and the skin I'm dying to touch. But for now, I'll take what I can get—my hands wrapped firmly around her, each step driving her tighter to me as she breathes softly against my neck.
I've given this girl a hundred piggybacks, but this one feels different. Tonight, I'm excruciatingly aware of every place my hands touch her.
Her scent fills the air around me—not the familiar coconut shampoo but her perfume—a heady mix of floral and spice that I swear is laced with some kind of dick-hardening pheromone designed purely to drive me insane. Every inhale makes me want to turn my head, bury my face in her neck, and breathe her in until I drown in it.
By the time we reach our front door, I'm barely holding on. I set Amelia down, my hands lingering a heartbeat too long on her thighs, feeling the heat through the denim before I reluctantlypull back. She drops her shoes by the door, tiptoeing across the floor and heading straight for the couch, where she collapses without a second thought. She stretches out, arms and legs splayed, sinking into the cushions as if they're welcoming her home. She lets out a deep, satisfied sigh, and for a moment, I'm frozen, caught between watching and wanting.
I move closer, my feet silent against the floor, until I'm standing over her. My hands find the top of the couch cushions as I look down at her, unable to tear my gaze away. Her hair spills across the pillows like dark silk, one hand resting softly on her stomach, and everything in me aches to touch her. To trace the delicate line of her jaw and feel the softness of her skin beneath my fingertips. Her breathing is slow and steady, and I'm hit with this insane urge to feel the rise and fall of her chest, to press my hand there and match my breath to hers.
"You sleeping there tonight, Firefly?"
"Maybe." She laughs, her eyes fluttering open to meet mine.
Before she pushes herself up, there's a brief moment—just a flicker—where something almost electric passes between us.
I don’t move. I stay rooted in place, my eyes following her every step as she gets up and heads toward the kitchen. She opens the refrigerator, grabs a bottle of water, and I finally manage to pull myself to my feet.
"You heading back out?" she asks, taking a sip of water, the bottle pressed against her lips as she watches me over its edge.
I step into the kitchen and stop across from her, shaking my head. "No."
I don't know how she does it, how she can stand so close and not let whatever this is affect her the way it's tearing through me.
Maybe she's just better at pretending.
"Why not?" she asks.
Why not? I could tell her a hundred things, but none would make sense.
The only truth I've got is this… I don't want to go.
That's all I've got—that I just want to stay here with her.
My dick's broken.
Except it isn't, and that's the problem.
"Not in the mood," I mutter.
"Well, that's a first."
It's also a lie, but right now, I'm ready to fuck a brick wall with how much I want this pain in the ass standing in front of me.
I walk toward her, saying nothing, needing water and maybe a miracle to sober me up a little more.
Amelia doesn't move as I open the refrigerator door, and when I turn back, I realize I'm standing way too close—close enough that the line between us feels about a mile thinner than it did a second ago.
But I don't back away. Instead, I twist off the water cap and take a long drink. Finally, she shifts, sliding herself up onto the kitchen island.
Suddenly, my eyes fall to her neckline and the curve of her collarbone. My throat goes dry, and the urge to close the space between us, to taste her, to feel her under my hands, is clawing at me, pushing back against what little control I've got left.
"What's up your ass?"
"Nothing." Another lie.
She catches it right away, eyes narrowing as she looks me over. "Since when are you a liar, Tobias? That's one thing you've never been."
"You don't want the truth, Mills, trust me." Her eyes narrow, and she slides off the island and steps closer to me.
"What's wrong?"
I can see it written all over her face—she cares, she really does. But it's driving me crazy how she can stand there, completely unaffected, when I'm one breath away from saying fuck it all and dragging her lips to mine.
Her hand reaches out, brushing my arm, and it's torture. Pure, unrelenting torture not to lean into her touch.
"You can talk to me," she says, her voice so soft it almost makes me wish I could laugh it off as a drunken impulse.
But there's nothing funny about how much I want her. I take a step back, forcing some distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
"It's nothing that won't be okay again in the morning."
"Is this because of the girl at the bar? Are you pissed because you're here with me?"
"This has nothing to do with Dani, and no, Amelia, I could never— I'm not…" I trail off, rubbing a hand over my face, feeling the weight of everything I can't say, pressing down hard. I look up at the ceiling, counting the spotlights as if they'll ground me—anything to calm the mess of thoughts that are pulling me under. "I think you should go to bed, Mills."
She lets out a disbelieving laugh, her eyebrows raised, and the look she's giving me nearly undoes me. "Go to bed? What am I, six?"
"Please," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Just take your ass to your room, lock the door, and stay there before I fuck everything up."
"What?"
"Just go, Amelia!" The words explode from me, more frustration than anger. I'm not yelling at her—I'm yelling at this impossible situation and the fire in my veins that won't burn out.
She steps back, shock written across her face. My reaction was too much, an overreaction by anyone's standards, especially when she doesn't even know what the hell is going on inside my head.
"Fuck you, Tobias," she mutters, brushing past me.
Before she can fully pull away, my hand snaps out as instinct takes over. My fingers wrap around her wrist, firm but not rough, and the feel of her skin against mine is like fuel on a fire that's already out of control. She freezes, her gaze dropping to my hand and the ink winding around her wrist before she looks up, meeting my eyes.
"Hey," I say, my voice softer now, desperate to undo the damage. "I'm sorry, and tomorrow, I'll apologize again. But please, Mills…" My words fade as my eyes drop to her lips, noticing the way they part slightly.
She isn't dumb; she knows why I'm asking her to go, but she's not calling it out—she's letting it pass, and for that, I'm grateful. I grip her wrist a fraction tighter, grounding myself against the pull that's driving me mad.
"I shouldn't have yelled like that, but I need you to go to bed."
For a moment, it feels like we're balanced on a knife's edge, the world holding its breath, waiting to see which one of us will tip first. One word from her, one look—that's all it'll take for me to throw every ounce of restraint out the window and ruin this thing between us without a second thought.
But instead, her gaze drops to my hand, and I know it's my cue. I loosen my grip, letting her wrist slip from my hold.
She walks away without looking back, and I watch her every step until her door closes with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the silence.
I let out a long, shaky breath, leaning forward onto the island, my palms pressing into the cool surface like it could somehow calm the fire still raging inside me.
Tonight, my right hand is all I've got.
But I know damn well that with every stroke, it'll be her face, her voice, and her fucking name that I can't get out of my head.