Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Hailey
When You Have to Make a Desperation Save
This day has been . . . strange. Not in the Oh, I got stuck in an elevator with a celebrity and now we’re best friends kind of way, but in the I had an out-of-body experience because my best friend touched me and now I’m in a full-blown existential crisis kind of way.
I should be relieved that Killion and Camille, his fiancée, stopped by earlier. Having dinner with them meant we didn’t have to have that conversation—the one where I attempt to explain why I ran out of Leif’s room like it was on fire, why my body betrayed me in a way that no friendship should ever have to endure. Maybe he didn’t notice, or maybe he’s choosing not to bring it up so he doesn’t embarrass me.
Either way, I refuse to be the one to test that theory.
After dinner, I did what any rational person would do: I fled. Exhaustion, headache, stomachache—I rattled off every excuse I could think of, hoping no one would question the fact that I was practically sprinting to my room. I refused to look at Leif because I knew, I knew, if I caught even a glimpse of his expression, I’d overanalyze it into oblivion. And yet, here I am, hours later, wide awake.
I tried everything. A long bath, hoping the warmth would lull me into unconsciousness. Digging out the softest pajamas I own, only to realize they aren’t nearly as comfortable as I remember. I almost asked Leif for one of his sweatshirts, but that would involve acknowledging his existence, and right now, my survival depends on avoiding him for the next two trimesters. Maybe longer. Humping my best friend is probably frowned upon.
When I realized those sleeping clothes would be as good as it gets, I tried every trick in the book. Classical music, white noise, rolling my pillow to the cold side. Curling up like a shrimp. Sprawling out like a starfish. Tossing, turning, swearing at the ceiling. Nothing worked. My body refused to rest, my mind refused to stop, and I knew exactly who to blame.
Leif Crawford and his stupid, perfect hands. His stupid, perfect face. His stupid, perfect everything. How is it fair that someone can exist like that? How is it fair that I can feel him even when he’s not in the room, like some invisible force field I can’t seem to escape?
And the worst part? This is feeling is new and it shouldn’t exist. I mean, how? We’ve always been close. That’s never been in question. But after that thing that happened in his room something has shifted. The air between us is different, charged with something I don’t know how to name, something that sits at the edge of my thoughts like a dare. It’s a tension that wasn’t there before, or maybe it was, and I was just too busy pretending it didn’t exist. Either way, it’s a problem. A big one.
I have to figure out where to go next, where to live, what my life is supposed to look like before I do something that changes everything. Moving in with my grandparents would be the easy answer, but I’m on a family detox—a break, courtesy of my therapist, who assured me that distance is necessary while I work through my feelings and issues. Not a permanent goodbye, just a pause. A chance to reset before I get pulled back into the emotional tangle that is my family.
But first, I need to figure out how to deal with the fact that I can’t sleep because my best friend touched me and now I can’t stop thinking about it.
I sigh, shoving the covers away and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. If my body refuses to sleep—a distraction. That’s all I need. A glass of water. A walk around the penthouse. Something to pull me out of my own head and away from thoughts of how good Leif’s hands felt on me.
The floor is cool beneath my bare feet as I make my way into the hall, the penthouse wrapped in the quiet lull of the city at night. The glow of the skyline filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the dark hardwood floors. The whole place feels different at this hour, softer, almost dreamlike, and for a second, I think I might actually enjoy the solitude.
Until I see him.
Leif is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a protein shake in one hand, staring out at the city like it holds answers to questions he hasn’t even figured out how to ask yet. His jaw is tight, his posture relaxed but thoughtful. There’s something about the way he’s standing there, lost in his own world, that makes my stomach turn over.
And just like that, it’s back. The attraction, the pull, the quiet hum of something that I should ignore but can’t.
I should turn around. Walk away. Pretend I never saw him, that I didn’t notice the way my pulse tripped over itself just from looking at him. This is Leif. My best friend. My safe place. Whatever is happening inside me is temporary, a hormonal misfire that will pass if I just ignore it.
Instead, I walk straight into the kitchen.
Leif doesn’t turn, but I know he knows I’m there.
“You’re up.” His grip tightens around his glass for half a second before his shoulders loosen, his voice coming out casual, amused.
“You sound surprised.”
“I am.” He finally looks over at me, and I almost wish he hadn’t.
He’s barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a worn-out hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair a little messy, like he’s been dragging his fingers through it for the last hour. He looks pretty, maybe pretty isn’t the right word, but I . . . I need to stop looking at him with non-friend-goggles. He’s my bestie, my ride or die, my person. Not whatever my body thinks he can be.
I force myself to ignore the way my stomach dips. Act normal, Hailey.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say, opening the fridge just for the illusion of purpose. “And I figured if I was going to be awake, I might as well be annoying and keep you company.”
His lips twitch, a flicker of something amused, something fond. “Generous of you.”
I grab a water bottle and hop up onto the counter. I don’t miss the way his gaze flicks to my legs—bare, since I’m wearing a tank top and sleep shorts. It’s quick, almost nothing.
But I notice.
And now my skin feels too hot.
I exhale slowly, unscrewing the cap. “Do you ever wonder why we work so well together?”
Leif tilts his head, shifting so he’s fully facing me now. “Work?”
“You know.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Why we get each other. Why this—” I wave around the penthouse, “—doesn’t feel weird, even though it should.”
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze calm but unreadable. Then, finally, he smirks, but it’s tighter than usual. “We don’t just work well together, Hail.”
I raise a brow, waiting.
His throat bobs, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter. “We’re inevitable.”
The air shifts.
I swallow too hard, gripping the water bottle between my fingers. “That’s dramatic.”
He shrugs, his jaw ticking like he’s holding something back. “Doesn’t make it untrue. You’re just trying to avoid it—but you know it’s there. Us.”
And now I can’t breathe.
Because the way he says it—soft, certain, completely unshaken—makes me realize what I already know deep down.
He’s right.
We crossed the line. It’s not blurry, it’s gone. But it should be like that. This is Leif. The guy who watches me like I’m something he has to protect.
Leif, who has always been there, in every country, on every call, for every stupid thing I’ve done since we met.
Leif, who makes me feel like home has never been a place, but a person.
The air feels charged, electric. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I know, I know , that I should move, laugh it off, keep things the way they’ve always been.
But I don’t.
The air between us shifts, slow and deliberate, like the pull of the tide before a wave crashes. It starts with the smallest touch—his fingers grazing my wrist, barely there, as if testing, waiting for me to stop him. A whisper of contact, so light I could pretend it never happened if I wanted to. But I don’t. I can’t. The warmth of his skin spreads through me, curling around my nerves, sending something restless, something insistent through my veins.
His fingers trail lower, wrapping around my wrist, his palm pressing against my pulse. The heat of it sears into me, making me hyperaware of everything—his nearness, the way his breath hitches slightly, the almost imperceptible flex of his grip. My heart pounds, erratic and impossible to ignore, each beat like a drum against my ribs, a silent admission of something I haven’t allowed myself to acknowledge. His thumb brushes over my pulse, a slow, unhurried glide that tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
His voice is quiet, rough in a way that slides through me, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Tell me you don’t feel this.”
I should say something. I should pull away, make a joke, do anything but stand here and let the moment stretch, let the tension coil tighter between us. But the words won’t come. I don’t want to lie, don’t want to break whatever is happening, don’t want to pretend that my entire body isn’t humming with something I don’t fully understand.
He’s closer now, just a breath away, his body angled toward mine in a way that makes it impossible to think of anything except the space between us, how little of it remains. The air feels charged, thick with anticipation, every second dragging into something unbearably slow. His eyes drop to my mouth, and a shiver runs through me, my entire body attuned to every tiny movement, every small shift.
“Stop me, Hailey Bean.” His fingers tighten around my wrist, not in restraint, but in something else—something questioning, something seeking. His other hand lifts, fingertips tracing along my jaw, featherlight, his touch coaxing rather than demanding.
I swear I forget how to breathe, my chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven pulls. He hesitates for half a second, giving me a chance to move, to stop this before it becomes something we can’t take back. But I don’t move. I just stand there, locked in place, waiting for something I don’t know how to name.
Then he leans in.
It’s unbearably slow, an agonizing build that leaves me suspended in place, unable to think, unable to do anything except exist in this moment, in this sliver of time where everything is balanced on the edge of something irreversible. His breath is warm against my lips, his touch firm but careful, as if he’s holding something fragile, something he refuses to break.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not fast, not desperate. It’s careful, unhurried, deliberate in a way that makes my entire body react all at once. The brush of his lips against mine sends a shiver down my spine, a slow, melting heat pooling in my stomach, making my fingers twitch where they’ve curled into the fabric of his sweatshirt. It’s a question and an answer all at once, something lingering in the way he tilts his head, the way he lets out the smallest exhale, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s afraid to let go.
For a second, I can’t move, can’t think, can’t process anything except the way he tastes, the way his mouth fits against mine like something inevitable. And then something in me gives, something that has been stretched too tight, held too long, and I kiss him back.
The second I do, his restraint frays at the edges. His hand moves to my lower back, fingers pressing into me, drawing me closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. His other hand slides into my hair, fingertips trailing over the nape of my neck in a way that makes my entire body shudder. The kiss deepens, no longer tentative, no longer just a brush of lips but something more, something real, something I feel everywhere.
I don’t know how long we stand there, tangled in something I don’t know how to define, but when we finally break apart, I don’t step back. I don’t say anything. I just look at him, and he looks at me, and I know.
Everything is different now—how are we supposed to work this out?