Chapter 24 #2
“Yeah, that,” I manage, staring intently at a loose thread on my sleeve. “I just... I think maybe we should be careful. With the project and everything, it could get…messy.”
I risk glancing up at him, expecting to see that trademark smirk, that cocky confidence that says he knows exactly how much I wanted him then. How much a part of me still does.
But instead, his expression is thoughtful, almost gentle.
“Look, I get it. You're unsure,” he says, leaning back slightly. “About this. About me.”
I blink, surprised by his perception. How does he see right through me when most people can't even tell when I'm upset?
“I won't kiss you again unless you ask me to, or you kiss me first,” he continues, his voice steady but with an undercurrent I can't quite place. "We're project partners, I know how much winning means to you and that comes first. I promise I won’t let my feelings get in the way.”
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
“That's... probably for the best,” I say, trying to ignore the strange twinge of disappointment that follows. Did I want him to fight harder? To persuade me? The realization unsettles me.
“I'm not good with relationships either, you know, or people in general,” I admit.
He looks up.
I shift, folding my legs under me. “I thought you were this guy who just... skated through relationships. Who never cared enough to get hurt. Who always had the upper hand.” I shrug. “I was wrong.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. Or maybe just relief. That I didn't brush it off. That I'm not teasing or downplaying or deflecting.
“We're both messed up,” I continue, my voice steadier than I feel. “Maybe that's actually... okay? Maybe it's better than one person having their shit together and the other one being a disaster. At least we’d know what we're getting into.”
I surprise myself with this admission. With this willingness to even consider the possibility of an “us.”
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with those stupid blue eyes like he's trying to figure out who I am now.
And the truth is, I'm not sure.
But for the first time, I'm considering that maybe being a little broken isn't the same as being unfixable. Maybe it just means you have to find someone whose broken pieces fit with yours.
Troy checks his phone, breaking the moment.
“Damn, forgot to plug it in earlier,” he mutters. “Battery's dead. Can I borrow yours? I want to text Freddie to let him know I'm not coming to the gym tonight.”
Because you're here. With me.
The unspoken words hang in the air between us.
“Sure,” I say, gesturing to where my phone sits on the counter. “Go ahead.”
Troy picks it up, hesitates, then glances back at me. “Uh, what's your passcode?”
I tell him without thinking, watching as he types it in. It's only after I've said it that I realize I've never given anyone my phone code before.
“Mind if I go on your Instagram?” he asks.
“Yeah, I don't really use it anyway,” I say. It's true, I'm barely on it. But due to my proximity to Troy, I do now have his whole little family on there, including Freddie.
He finds what he needs, then hands it back.
“Thanks.”
I nod, then realize something. “Wait, you don't use a passcode on your phone?” I'd noticed he just pressed the power button to unlock it yesterday.
He shrugs. “Too much hassle. I've got nothing to hide anyway.”
“That's incredibly naive in 2025,” I say, shaking my head. “What if someone steals it? Or goes through your messages?”
“Then they'd be bored to death reading about engineering problems and group chats with the guys.” He laughs. “Seriously, there's nothing interesting on there.”
He’s so open, so different from how I guard every aspect of my life.
Troy glances over at the small TV stand in the corner. “You, uh... got anything to watch?”
“You want to watch a movie?”
He shrugs. “Seems like the right thing to do after a life-altering sandwich and a traumatic overshare.”
I huff a soft laugh. “Ok, yeah.”
He gets up and starts flipping through the small stack of DVDs beside the TV like he's handling priceless artifacts.
“Okay, these are kind of elite,” he says, holding up a copy of Twilight. “Is this a ‘watch ironically’ collection or a ‘this is actually comfort cinema’ situation?”
“Edward Cullen is a national treasure,” I reply flatly.
He puts the disc in without argument.
We settle onto the couch, not too close, not far either. The air between us has shifted — lighter somehow, even after everything.
Halfway through the movie, I realize something strange.
I feel… still. Not like my body is still—that happens every day when I’m sleeping or reading or waiting for my bus—but internally.
I’m not mentally writing tomorrow’s to-do list or thinking about class readings I haven’t done or checking the corners of the room for some metaphorical fire to put out.
I’m just… sitting. Breathing.
Existing in this tiny, warm space with Troy Hawkins beside me, mouthing along to the stupid lines in Twilight.
His arm leans against mine and I don’t pull away.
At some point, I yawn. Not because I’m bored, but because I’m comfortable. My spine’s curved into the old couch cushions, and my socks are tucked under me.
“C’mere, Greer,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch.
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”
He’s grinning, all lazy and self-satisfied. “I’m cold. Come warm me up.”
My mouth opens. “It’s not a proposal, I just want to be warm,” he adds, like that clarifies anything.
“I don’t cuddle,” I tell him, like it’s a matter of personal hygiene. Even though that’s a lie, I love to cuddle. Just not with him, or with anybody I might actually catch feelings for.
“Sure you do,” he says, cocking his head. “You just haven’t cuddled me yet.”
I should say no. I want to say no. But somehow—I have no idea how—my body moves before my brain can catch up, and I shift, slow and reluctant, into the space he’s opened for me.
I. Cuddle. Troy. Hawkins. Aaaand sit like a terrified statue the entire time.
He lets out a soft laugh, his breath warm against my ear. “Relax, Greer. I’ve got you.”
His arm curls around my shoulder, fingers stroking absentmindedly through my hair. I think I stop breathing for a second. Not because I’m scared—well, okay, I am—but because something about those words…
Relax, I’ve got you.
They land somewhere deep. Somewhere I’ve spent years trying to forget even exists.
I breathe. I let my body lean into his. I rest my head on his chest, right over his heartbeat. And bit by bit, I feel myself loosen. The tension in my shoulders. My jaw. Even my fists, usually curled somewhere in preparation for life to hit.
And still, part of me—quiet but sharp—doesn’t understand what’s happening. Troy Hawkins isn’t supposed to be this.
It’s messing with my head. But I don’t move or say anything because right now, I don’t want to leave this moment. And maybe that’s the scariest part.
I don’t know how long we sit like that. And just before sleep tugs me under, I swear— I swear I feel him tracing slow lines down my arm and whispering my name.