Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
ANDI
This restaurant was a terrible idea.
The lighting is low and intimate, the kind that makes everything feel closer than it should.
The tables are designed for couples to sit side by side, leaning into each other over shared plates, not across from each other like we are now.
Somehow, that makes it worse. Sitting across from him feels like we’re forcing distance in a place clearly designed to eliminate it.
It feels like we’re pretending at something we’re not allowed to name.
That’s what he is. My friend. He confirmed it for me last night, loud enough for me to hear it, whether he intended me to hear it or not.
Part of me hoped he’d say he couldn’t do the act tonight. That he’d suddenly have training or a last-minute obligation that would create space between us. Because seeing him and wanting more is exhausting. But not seeing him at all would be worse, and I’m honest enough with myself to admit it.
So here we are.
And I’m in deeper than I ever intended to be.
Our waitress is not helping matters.
She has barely looked at me since we sat down.
Her attention has been entirely on Luke—laughing too hard, lingering too long, refilling his drink even though it’s still half full.
By the third trip to our table, she slips a folded note beside his plate, as if she’s on some secret mission and expects applause for her bravery.
I pick it up before he can.
“How sweet,” I say, smiling in a way that seems polite but carries a sharp edge. “Bless your heart.”
She flushes and retreats quickly, and I don’t even feel bad about it.
Luke watches the whole thing unfold with a trace of amusement he’s trying and failing to hide. “Something wrong, Andi?”
I smooth the note between my fingers, then hold it out to him. “No. She’s just persistent and rude. She doesn’t know who I am to you. Here you go.”
He doesn’t take it. Instead, he studies me with that subtle intensity that always makes me feel he sees more than I want him to. So I place it beside his plate so he can clearly see her phone number.
“Why would you give me that?” He inclines his head toward the table but doesn’t look away.
Because you told your brother I’m just your friend.
Because I need to know where I stand.
Because I refuse to look foolish.
I swallow the truth before it spills out too harshly. “If you’re interested in her, I won’t stand in your way.”
The words scrape like glass shards in my throat as they leave.
His posture shifts immediately. “Did Brandon call you or something?”
“What? No.”
“You wouldn’t go out with him?”
“No,” I answer firmly. “I wouldn’t.”
He studies my face like he’s struggling to solve a puzzle that keeps rearranging itself, and I know that if I don’t say what’s between us, it’s going to rot there.
“I heard you last night, Luke.”
He goes still in a way that tells me he already knows what I’m about to say.
“You were outside with Brandon. I was cleaning up and came around the side of the house. You were loud enough that I didn’t misunderstand you.” My voice is steady, even though my pulse isn’t. “You said we’re friends and that you won’t call it something it’s not.”
Silence settles between us, heavy and uncomfortable.
I never meant to tell him that. I told myself I would swallow it and let it fade.
But I am so tired of trying to decode him.
For most of that night, I truly believed he was ready to take a chance.
I saw it in the way he held me, in the way he looked at me.
And when I heard what he said to Brandon, I felt like a fool for believing any of it.
“I’m not mad,” I say quietly, because that part is true. “But I can’t keep doing this. I don’t do one-night stands or friends-with-benefits. If you want me as a friend, I can do that. But it has to be clean. No flirting, no touching, and no mixed signals.”
My throat tightens, but I push through it because I refuse to pretend any longer.
“And if you want more, you have to be sure. I can’t go back and forth. Not with you. We can’t build something real on hesitation.”
He exhales slowly, and for the first time tonight, I see something break open in his expression. Not defensiveness. Not ego. Something closer to regret.
LUKE
This is exactly what I deserve.
I thought I was protecting us by not naming it. I thought that if I didn’t say it out loud, I couldn’t break it. But hearing her repeat my words back to me makes me realize how careless that logic was.
She ignored my texts last night and didn’t come to the gym today. I convinced myself she was already pulling away, that I had crossed an invisible line when I told her I wanted her.
Now I understand why.
I reach for her hands before I lose my nerve. I’ve given her nothing but mixed signals, and if I’m honest with myself, I’ve been hiding behind that uncertainty because it felt safer than admitting how much she matters.
“Andi, I didn’t say that because it’s how I feel,” I tell her quietly. “Brandon was pushing. He turns everything into a challenge. I didn’t want to say anything to him before I’d even said it to you.”
She doesn’t look convinced, and I don’t blame her. The truth is, I’ve been afraid to say it to anyone at all.
“I’ve never wanted anything this much,” I admit, my words rougher than I expected. “And that scares me.”
Her expression softens, but she doesn’t rush in to make it easier.
“I’m not Megan,” she says gently.
The name lands like a weight on my chest.
“I know,” I answer. “But what happened with Megan changed me. I don’t walk into things lightly anymore.”
“And I’m not asking you to walk in lightly,” she replies. “I’m asking you to walk in honestly.”
That hits deeper than anything else she’s said tonight.
The waitress returns with our food, and whatever else I might have confessed gets swallowed up by the interruption.
We finish dinner in quieter conversation—not pretending nothing happened, but not fully resolving it either.
There’s a fragility to the space between us now, as if we’re both aware how easily it could crack.
When we leave, I don’t walk ahead of her as I usually do. I stay beside her. We start to cross the street toward my truck. On instinct, I survey our surroundings for any potential threats—vehicles parked too close to us, a man standing too close to be a coincidence, anything out of the ordinary.
A gray sedan like the one parked across from the gym catches my eye, a few cars down the street from us.
It’s vacant this time, but it has the same tinted windows.
If only it were idling, I’d know for sure by the noise the faulty gas pump makes.
I don’t say anything to Andi as I open the passenger door and get her safely inside.
“Sit still for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
She frowns in confusion but nods in agreement. “Okay.”
I take a short stroll down the street, turn behind the gray sedan to get the license plate, then walk straight back to my truck.
The club is louder than usual when we arrive, the energy humming in a way that feels almost charged. We make our way to our usual table just as Brandon appears through the crowd, that easy confidence of his irritating me since we were kids.
Of course, he’s here. He isn’t even looking at me. He’s looking at her instead.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” I mutter.
Andi stands to hug him, like everything is fine, like my chest isn’t tightening as I watch.
“What are you doing here, Brandon?” I ask.
“Alicia mentioned that Andi was singing tonight,” he says smoothly. “We wanted to hear her.”
We.
I follow his gaze and see Alicia and Greg making their way toward us. After introductions, chairs are rearranged, and the conversation swells.
At some point, I remove my hand from the back of Andi’s chair without thinking, and Brandon’s arm slides into the empty space as if he’s been waiting for it. The sight sparks something territorial in me before I can stop it.
“Dance with me,” I say, taking her hand.
On the dance floor, the music slows, and I pull her close. She fits against me as if she belongs there, as the space between us has always been temporary. I brush a kiss against her cheek and feel a slight shiver run through her.
“Andi,” I murmur, pulling back just enough to see her face.
She looks up at me, eyes soft yet guarded, as if she’s waiting to see which version of me she’ll get tonight.
Before I can say what’s sitting at the back of my throat, someone taps her shoulder. “You’re up in ten minutes.”
She nods and looks back at me. “You ready?”
I follow her backstage, the noise of the club dulling as we slip behind the curtain.
She pulls it aside, and I step into the set.
It isn’t flashy. It’s intimate. A bed is angled in the corner under soft lighting. Roses and a glass of wine are placed carefully on a small table. It feels vulnerable in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“What’s the song about?” I ask, even though I already suspect. We’ve practiced the movements and the timing, but she’s been cagey about the lyrics.
“About choosing something that could ruin you,” she says calmly. “And wanting it anyway.”
“And I’m death.”
She nods. “You don’t force anything. You don’t even speak. You just wait. You circle. You let her decide to step closer.”
The message isn’t subtle at all.
“And if he waits too long?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
She meets my eyes without hesitation. “Then she learns to live without him.”
There’s no anger in her voice. No threat. Just certainty.
Someone calls her name from beyond the curtain.
She turns back to me. “You ready?”
No.
But I nod anyway.
Because if I hesitate again, I won’t just lose the moment.
I’ll lose her.