9. Clover
This is bad.
This is so, so bad.
I'm starting to forget what my life looked like before Banks.
Two weeks into this whole sharing-my-space-with-my-brother’s-best-friend-and-also-my-teenage-and-maybe-now-crush situation, and I've somehow stopped counting down the days until he leaves. Stopped drawing those invisible, but very important to my sanity, boundaries around my personal space. Stopped even pretending that I'm not hyper-aware of his every move, every breath, every damn time he clears his throat.
Which is, again, so bad.
"You're overthinking it again, Freckles," Banks says from across my tiny dining table, his deep voice cutting through the chaotic mess of my thoughts. "The concept really isn't as complicated as this textbook is trying to make it."
I glare daggers at my Business Analytics textbook, silently wishing it would spontaneously combust into a pile of useless, knowledge-repelling ash. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one with a final project due in, oh, let me check… three freaking days."
"True." He takes a long sip of his coffee—his third cup tonight, which should make sleep impossible for a normal human being, but the man could probably doze off in the middle of an earthquake. "But this is basically just applied statistics with a bunch of unnecessarily fancy words thrown in. I took it for my engineering major."
I look up at him, my brain momentarily short-circuiting as I try to process this new, completely unexpected piece of information. "Wait. You have an engineering degree? Since when?"
He just shrugs those unfairly broad shoulders, the movement causing his worn, soft-looking vintage Tool t-shirt to stretch across his chest in a way that sends an inconvenient little pang straight to my ovaries and dries out my mouth. "Since about seven years ago. When I went to college," he eyes me like I’m dense, “with your brother.”
"But… you're a firefighter." Duh, Clover, way to state the obvious.
"Wow, Freckles, you are observant." His lips quirk up in his half-smile that does this unholy things to my body.
"I graduated, worked for a corporate firm downtown for about eight miserable months, hated every single second of being stuck behind a desk staring at spreadsheets, and decided to follow in my dad's footsteps instead."
I just stare at him, genuinely surprised. In all the years I've known Banks, he's always just been Kasen's cocky, perpetually unserious firefighter friend with the easy smile and that permanent five o'clock shadow. The guy who teases me mercilessly and looks way too good in his uniform.
Not… this.
Not a man who can casually explain complex data visualization concepts while making it sound like he's talking about the weather. Not someone who willingly gave up a cushy office job to run headfirst into burning buildings because it felt more meaningful.
"Why didn't I know that about you?" The question just slips out.
His eyes meet mine across the small table, and there's this unexpected flicker of something soft, almost vulnerable, in them. "You never asked."
The simple, honest truth of his answer lands in my stomach like a lead weight. He's right. In all these years, I've never really asked Banks anything real about himself. I've been so busy keeping my guard up, maintaining my armor against his relentless teasing and that impossible attraction that I’ve never been able to fully escape that I never bothered to look any deeper.
I guess I was too afraid of what I might find.
"Okay," I say, pushing my textbook aside and leaning forward. "Well, I'm asking now."
His eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise. "Alright then, Clover James. What exactly do you want to know?"
"Everything." The word tumbles out of my mouth before I can overthink it and clam up. "Start with why engineering. Then why you decided to ditch that for running into burning buildings. Then just… work your way forward from there."
A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, transforming his features from just being unfairly handsome to something genuinely devastating. "That might take a while."
I glance down at my phone. It's 10:28 PM. My final project isn't due until Friday, and right now, in this moment, actually getting to know the person sitting across from me feels a hell of a lot more important than working on my regression analysis.
"Lucky for both of us," I say, leaning back in my chair, "I've got time."
And so, over the next hour, Banks starts telling me his story. How he was always good with numbers and had this weird knack for spatial reasoning even as a little kid. How his dad, who only had a high school education, had really pushed him to go to college and pursue engineering, wanting him to have more opportunities. How college was a constant financial tightrope walk, but he somehow managed with scholarships and working a million part-time jobs. How that first and only corporate gig left him feeling hollow and empty inside despite the decent paycheck.
"The day I finally quit, my dad was so confused," Banks says, a laugh bubbling up at the memory. "He'd drilled into my head that I needed that degree, that it was my ticket to a better life. When I told him I was applying to the fire academy, he honestly thought I'd lost my damn mind."
"So what changed his mind?"
Banks's expression softens again, becoming almost sweet. "He saw me after my first week of training. Said he'd never seen me look that alive before." He runs a hand through his hair. "He died proud of me, at least. That's something."
My heart clenches at his words. I've known about his dad's death—Kasen had gone to the funeral, and I remember how quiet and shaken my brother had been when he got back—but Banks and I have never actually talked about it. "I remember when it happened. Kasen was really torn up about it for you. I just… we never really talked about it."
Without thinking, I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. His skin is warm and calloused in places, and holy crap, what am I even doing right now? My heart does this little leap the second my skin makes contact with his, but it would look bad if I just yanked my hand back, so I take a deep breath and just… lean into how right it feels to touch him.
"No, we didn't," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over my knuckles, sending unexpected little bursts of electricity all the way up my arm. "It wasn't exactly the kind of conversation we usually had."
"I'm sorry, Banks," I say, and I actually mean it, more than I would have expected. "That must’ve been awful. Losing him like that."
He turns his hand over, our palms pressing together, and then his fingers slowly intertwine with mine. It's the first time we've touched on purpose, without the flimsy excuse of reaching for the same remote or awkwardly brushing past each other in the kitchen.
And just that single point of contact sends an intense heat spiraling through me, through every vein and blood vessel, all the way down to focus between my legs. It’s like he's somehow managed to touch every single inch of me all at once.
"It was." His fingers tighten around mine, and a big part of me wishes he would just keep holding on forever. "But it's part of the job. We all know the risks when we sign up."
The casual way he says it—like his life being in constant danger is just some accepted fact of life—makes a horrible ache start in my chest. I think back to that gas leak at Ember, the way he didn't hesitate before charging in. How many other times has he run straight toward danger while everyone else was running the other way?
"What about you?" he asks, his voice softer now, breaking into my thoughts. "You never really talk about your mom."
I stiffen. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to pull back, but his grip on my hand tightens just enough to let me know he's not letting go that easily.
"You don't have to," he adds, his eyes searching mine. "I'm just… I want to know you, Clover. The real you, not as my best friend's off-limits little sister who makes me think all kinds of things I shouldn't."
A surprised laugh escapes me despite the sudden heavy turn in the conversation. Yeah, I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear that last part, even as my internal temperature just went up by at least ten degrees. "She used to make these ridiculously elaborate cocktails for her book club. They were totally amateur with way too much sugar and the weirdest garnishes you've ever seen. They were disgusting." My lips curl into a reluctant, fond smile at the memory. "I'd sneak sips when she wasn't looking, which is probably why I ended up working behind a bar in the first place."
Banks's smile is gentle, and I can’t seem to hold his gaze with the way he’s looking at me. I shift in my chair, crossing and then uncrossing my legs.
I take a deep breath. "She got sick my sophomore year of high school. You already know this because of Kasen, but it was cancer. She went from diagnosis to gone in about five months." The familiar ache rises in my chest. It’s duller now after eleven years but never completely absent. "Kasen took it really hard. I’m sure you remember."
"Yeah. He ended up dropping out that whole semester to help with everything."
I nod, remembering the blur of those months.
"And you?" Banks prompts softly, his thumb now rubbing slow, soothing circles around the inside of my wrist, and yeah, I think I might be melting right here at this table.
"I became super mom." The bitter little laugh that comes out of my mouth doesn't sound like me. "It was suddenly all up to me to keep the house running. I made sure Kasen ate something other than ramen. Got straight A's because that's what she would have wanted." I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. "Control just kind of became my coping mechanism, I guess. If I could just keep everything in perfect order, then maybe nothing else bad would ever happen."
Banks's hand squeezes mine. "Is that why you hate it when I move your stuff or leave a mess?"
The question startles a laugh out of me. "Yes, you monster. That's exactly why."
"Noted," he says softly, his smile warm, his eyes never leaving my face. My toes curl into the worn rug under the table at the way he’s looking at me. "And for what it's worth, I think your mom would be incredibly proud of you. Running the hottest bar in Portland, working your ass off on your business degree, handling everything the way you do? That's impressive as hell, Freckles."
His words hit me hard, threatening to go straight to my head and make me do something stupid. I can't help it; the question just claws its way out of my throat. "Is that what you really think? Because at Kasen's birthday party last year, you said I was 'just playing bartender until I found a real job.'" The words were so upsetting at the time, they did a great job of getting rid of my crush on him.
He winces, running a hand through his hair again and tugging on the ends. "Christ, did I actually say that? All I remember is being buzzed and trying not to stare at you all night." His eyes lock on mine, serious and completely unguarded. "I've always thought you were incredible at what you do. Anyone who's seen you run that bar knows it's not just some job to you. It's your damn domain. Your passion."
"Then why say it?" I press, needing to hear the reason.
"Because I'm a goddamn idiot who says stupid shit when I'm nervous around an insanely gorgeous woman I can't have." He shrugs, a hint of his teasing grin returning, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's always been easier to try to push you away than to admit how incredible you are."
No one has ever put it quite like that before. Usually, people focus on how I need to "chill out" or "take a breath" or whatever other patronizing bullshit they think will magically fix me. Banks is the first person who's ever looked at my drive as something to admire instead of something to correct, and I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear that until this very second.
"Thank you," I whisper, my voice coming out breathless. I clear my throat, desperately trying to regain some semblance of composure.
A massive clap of thunder crashes outside, startling both of us. I hadn't even noticed the storm rolling in, too caught up in our conversation. As soon as the thunder fades, rain starts to beat against the windows in a sudden, violent downpour. Wind kicks up and howls through the narrow alley beside my building, and the old windows rattle in their frames.
"Well, that came out of nowhere," Banks says, finally letting go of my hand to walk over to the window. The spot where his hand was feels cold, and I have to restrain myself from reaching for him again like some kind of desperate addict. "The weather app said it’d be clear all night."
"Yeah, well, predicting Portland weather is always a shitshow," I point out, joining him at the window. A flash of lightning illuminates his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the slight, almost imperceptible bump in his nose from where Kasen accidentally broke it during a backyard hockey game when I was sixteen. I remember bringing Banks ice packs while trying my hardest to pretend I wasn't staring at him. He's standing so close to me right now I can feel the heat radiating off his body, reminding me of all those years I spent trying my best to not notice how much he affected me.
"We should check the—"
The apartment plunges into darkness mid-sentence as the power cuts out.