Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Jason
How to Stop a Wind-Sprinting Woman with One Look
Ella Crawford—better known as Scottie, better known to me as the human embodiment of a Category Five hurricane—is freaking the fuck out in my apartment, and for once, I don’t have a single goddamn clue how to fix it.
Any other day, I’d be halfway through MacGyvering a solution with duct tape, bad jokes, and a fresh cup of coffee since I don’t have a paperclip.
But today? Today fixing it would mean backing down, and that’s a big fuck no.
A big, flashing-neon, hell-fucking-no. I can’t back down, not when this matters too much.
She’s wearing a trench across my hardwood floors, pacing so fast that my place suddenly feels too damn small to contain her storm.
Her coffee sits half-abandoned on the counter, growing cold, the forgotten casualty of her meltdown.
Her blouse is buttoned wrong like she got dressed while drunk-wrestling a tornado, and her hair’s a wreck that somehow still makes me want to drag my hands through it and kiss her until she forgets her own name.
But it’s her posture that guts me—the locked jaw, the rigid spine, the crackling energy holding her upright.
She’s unraveling, not all at once, but slow and obstinate in a way only Scottie can, refusing to break even when she’s clearly moments from shattering.
That’s my girl. She doesn’t explode. She leaks emotion like a pressure valve, refusing to pop.
I lean against the counter, mug in hand, pretending I’m not mentally recording every sharp breath, every muttered curse, every glance she throws toward the door like it’s offering her a parachute out of this conversation she doesn’t want to have.
She mutters something, low and angry under her breath.
“I’m late,” she says, not looking at me.
“For what?” I ask, even though I know damn well no grand meeting or appointment is waiting for her. Just the emotional panic room she’s itching to lock herself inside.
“I don’t know. Everything.” She waves a hand in the air like everything is valid on her to-do list. “My day. My life. My ability to make good decisions.”
“You think leaving now’s a good decision?”
That earns me a glance, more like a glare. It’s a quick, narrow-eyed, don’t-push-me look over the rim of her mug, and I don’t even remember her picking it up mid-pacing session. She’s like a caffeinated hurricane in heels.
“Don’t start, Tate.”
“I’m not starting,” I say, voice calm, even though I’m ready to bolt across the room and body-block the door if she reaches for the handle. “Just trying to figure out what you’re trying to outrun in that wrinkled blouse.”
Her eyes snap to mine, hot and lethal. Bingo. Direct hit.
“You think I’m running?”
“Sweetheart, you’re doing Olympic-level wind sprints in your head.” I smile, slow and lazy. The way I know pisses her off.
She blinks, and for a second, something flickers across her face. Not rage. Not even anger. Just that dawning pressure of knowing someone sees all the messy, ugly truths you’re trying so hard to bury. It punches me right in the gut because I know exactly what it feels like.
“I’m not running,” she says again, using a softer tone this time. “I’m just . . . keeping things clear.”
I set my mug down and push off the counter, walking slowly and carefully toward her like she’s a skittish animal that might bolt at the first wrong move. “Clear as in ‘thanks for the orgasms, now let’s pretend it didn’t mean anything’?”
Her arms cross over her chest, defensive and closed-off, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to tear through every wall she’s putting up between us. “Jason?—”
“You’re deflecting.”
She lets out a scoff that’s more wounded than she wants it to be. “I’m not?—”
“You are.” I stop just short of touching her. “Since you looked at me like I was a problem you couldn’t solve with coffee and distance. Instead of the guy who spent the entire night proving he’d never be a regret.”
She stills, her whole body going rigid, but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t bolt. That alone feels like a small, impossible victory.
I take a breath. Softer now. “You think if you put on your pants and call this casual, it’ll hurt less when you leave.”
“I’m wearing a skirt.” She deflects, but I know I've hit a nerve even when she doesn’t say it.
It should piss me off, but somehow it just makes me want to kiss her senseless. God, she’s impossible. Impossible and stubborn and my absolute fucking favorite mistake I refuse to regret.
I lift a hand, hovering it between us, not quite touching, giving her the choice she clearly doesn’t want to make. “But here’s the thing, Scottie.” My voice drops, my heart damn near hammering out of my chest. “I’m not scared of this. Of us. You are.”
She flinches—just a tiny, broken tremor that splits me wide open. I see it. The fear she’s trying so damn hard to deny.
“I’m not scared,” she lies, but there’s no real fight behind it. Just fear.
“You’re terrified.”
Stillness.
Silence.
Her hands tighten on the mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. She sways just a little and then drops her head, letting her shoulders slump the way they never do unless she’s ready to admit the thing that scares her most.
“I don’t know how to do this if it’s real.” She’s so quiet, I almost miss it.
The words hang there—soft, broken, terrifying. I don’t rush to fill the silence. I let it settle, let her hear, feel, and taste it. Only then do I move.
Slowly, I close the distance, brushing my fingers against hers, a feather-light touch that feels heavier than any kiss. “Me neither,” I admit. “Don’t think I’m not scared too. I’ve never done this before, either. You’re not just anyone I can screw up with and pretend it didn’t matter.”
My hand tightens just a little, grounding us both.
“You’re it, Scottie. No one else even comes close.”
Her fingers twitch against mine, and it’s small, barely anything, but it’s enough to make the world shift under my feet. She’s scared. I’m scared. But maybe, just maybe, we’re afraid of the same thing.
“Let’s figure it out together,” I whisper.
No grand promises. No perfect plan. Just two stubborn idiots standing in my kitchen, choosing each other even though it terrifies us both.