12. Banks
A month is a long goddamn time to pretend you’re not crawling out of your skin for someone who sleeps less than fifty feet away.
That you’re not completely fucked up and obsessed.
Thirty-three fucking days since that night in the middle of the storm. Thirty-three days of Clover breezing around in tiny sleep shorts, daring me not to picture ripping them off. Thirty-three days of casual brushes in the hall that set my nerves on fire. Thirty-three days of replaying exactly how she tastes, how she sounds when she comes, how perfectly she fit around me.
And thirty-three days of acting like it never happened.
“Priestly!” Captain Morgan’s bark slices through my memories like a buzz saw. “Quit daydreaming and get your ass back on the platform!”
I blink, realizing I’m dangling twenty feet above the training yard, harnessed up like a Christmas ornament. The rescue dummy sways below me on the rope I’m supposed to be controlling. Instead, I’ve been busy picturing Clover’s fingernails raking down my back.
“Shit. Sorry, Cap!” I yank the line to continue the exercise.
Morgan’s face is a storm cloud. He doesn’t even need to shout—his silent disappointment is worse than any curse he could hurl. Around us, the rest of the crew suddenly finds their own gear fascinating, desperate not to be the next one in his crosshairs.
Ten minutes later, I’m back in his office, standing at attention while he tears me a new asshole. I stare at the wall behind him, trying not to wilt under his glare.
“Third time this week, Priestly. Third. Fucking. Time.” Morgan’s eyebrows have fused into one giant caterpillar of rage. “What the hell’s going on inside that thick skull of yours? You keep this up, someone’s gonna die.”
I square my shoulders. “No excuses, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Morgan scowls. “It damn well better not. This isn’t a joke. I’ve got five other guys counting on you to be fully present, and your head’s off in la-la land. Get it together or enjoy desk duty.”
My stomach twists. Not because this is new—he’s chewed me out before—but because I know he’s right. My dad died because his partner lost focus on a routine call. One second of drifting can cost everything. If anyone should remember that, it’s me.
“I understand, sir.”
He leans forward, eyes narrowed. “This about that girl you’re shacking up with? Your buddy’s sister?”
My jaw grits. The fact he even remembers that conversation from a month ago catches me off guard. “What makes you think that?”
“Twenty years in this job, kid. I can tell when a man’s mind is somewhere else. And yours is clearly stuck on her.”
A lump forms in my throat. Denying it is useless—Morgan sees right through me. “Yeah. Something like that. It’s… complicated.”
“You said that last time we talked. Maybe it’s time you uncomplicate it.” He stands, effectively ending the discussion. “Fix your shit or I’m benching you indefinitely. I won’t have my crew put at risk because you can’t keep your dick in your pants.”
Am I really that fucking transparent?
It’s a goddamn miracle Kasen hasn’t figured me out yet.
I storm out of his office and head straight to the locker room, needing a breather to get my head on straight. I fling my locker open, the metal door cracking against the next one with a clang.
“Wow. Looks like someone’s having a stellar day.”
I whirl around. Brenna’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. Her blonde curls are pulled back in a tight braid, and she’s wearing the kind of expression that says she knows exactly what’s got me so pissed I could punch a hole in the wall.
“Not now, Foxton.”
“Oh, we’re doing this right now.” She steps inside, completely unbothered by my warning tone. “You almost dropped a rescue dummy from twenty feet up. That’s a kid, a victim, or one of us in a real scenario.”
My hands drag through my hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “I fucking know that.”
“Then act like it.” She moves closer, voice dropping. “You’ve been half-dead for weeks. Today you nearly botched a rescue drill. Tomorrow it might be the real thing.” Her gaze drills into me. “It’s about her, right? Clover?”
I groan. “Morgan just ripped me a new one. I don’t need you piling on. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“I am,” she snaps. “That’s why I’m calling you out. You’re a mess over this girl.”
A fresh wave of anger—and embarrassment—surges through me. “Why does everyone think my entire life revolves around that woman?” I slam the locker shut, the echo reverberating through the empty room.
“Because you’re walking around looking like my little brother after his first girlfriend dumped him—like somebody just curb-stomped your puppy, stole your ice cream, and told you Santa isn’t real all at once.” Brenna sinks onto the bench, clearly not leaving until she gets answers. “So? Did you sleep with the bartender or not?”
My anger deflates in a single whoosh. I slump onto the bench, suddenly exhausted. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And now we’re pretending it never happened.” I press the heels of my hands to my temples, trying to stave off the headache that’s been brewing all day. “It was her call, not mine.”
Brenna lets out a low whistle. “That good, huh?”
“You have no idea.” The memory blindsides me again—Clover beneath me, eyes locked on mine, saying my name like it meant everything. “It was… fuck, Bren. It was everything.”
“So what’s stopping you from going for it?” She narrows her eyes, then answers her own question. “Her brother, obviously.”
“That’s part of it.” I recall that morning after—Clover fortifying her walls, brick by stubborn brick, right in front of me. “She said it was a mistake. Because she’s Kasen’s sister, and I ‘only do casual.’” I practically spit the words, disgust rolling in my gut.
Brenna arches a brow. “Well, you have been the dictionary definition of a fuckboy ever since I met you.”
“Yeah, well…” I stare at my hands, remembering how they felt on Clover’s skin. “It’s what everyone expects from me.” Or wants me for.
“Bullshit.”
I look up, thrown by the sudden edge in Brenna’s voice.
“That’s total bullshit, Banks.” She crosses her arms and fixes me with a hard stare. “You’re the guy who brings soup to Vetter’s kids when they’re sick. Who spent a weekend moving Martinez’s grandma into her new apartment. Who volunteers at the burn unit on your days off.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Or have you just gotten so used to people treating you like you’re only good for a one-night stand that you forgot who you really are?” She shakes her head. “Women like Clover need somebody who shows up. Someone who stays when it gets ugly. And guess what—lucky her, that’s the guy you actually are.”
Her words hit me like a lightning bolt. Is that what Clover needs—someone who proves he’s here for the long haul, not another hookup who vanishes when things get complicated?
Does she need to see that I’m willing to put her before my best friend?
“Look,” Brenna goes on, pushing to her feet. “I don’t know exactly what’s up with you two, but ever since that ‘whatever happened,’ you haven’t been yourself. So either tell her how you feel or walk away, because this half-in, half-out shit is dangerous. For you, and for the rest of us.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Figure it out before Morgan benches your ass. I can’t deal with Johnson as a rescue partner. The jackass still calls me ‘little lady.’”
She heads out, and I’m left sitting there, her words rattling around in my head.
The problem is I've been waiting in the wings for Clover James since the first time I saw her across Kasen's living room, but I never believed I had a shot.
Now I know she wants me too, except she’s shutting me out.
The automatic doors whoosh open as I enter the grocery store, cold AC blasting across my face. It’s my day off, and I’m on a mission to cook something for dinner that might coax Clover into eating with me instead of working late at Ember again.
For the past week, she’s been sneaking in after I’m out cold and slipping away before I’m up. I’d think she was flat out dodging me, except she keeps leaving little things in the fridge with my name on them. Like she’s trying to take care of me while still keeping me at arm’s length.
It’s driving me fucking insane.
I’m standing in the meat section, debating between steak or the salmon Clover mentioned liking a while back, when I hear a familiar voice.
"Banks? Is that you?"
I turn to find Haley Price standing there, looking exactly like she did when we dated three years ago. Her hair’s perfect, her clothes are too expensive for grocery shopping, and her smile’s just this side of crazy.
"Haley." I nod, already trying to figure out how to get the hell out of here. "How are you?"
"I'm wonderful." She steps closer, her hand sliding up my arm like she has the right to touch me. I shake her off without being a dick about it, adjusting the basket I’m carrying to make the move seem natural. "It's been forever. We should catch up sometime."
The way she says "catch up" makes it clear she's not thinking about getting coffee.
Six months ago—even three months ago—I might’ve considered it. Haley and I were good at no-strings sex. She never asked for more than I was willing to give, and I never had to worry about hurting her.
But now? I feel absolutely nothing as she gives me a look that’s trying too hard to be tempting. I’m not into it. Her touch feels wrong. She doesn’t have freckles on her nose, and she’s not gonna give me shit for swapping where the forks and spoons go in the silverware drawer just to piss her off.
She's not Clover.
“I’m seeing home.” It’s a lie that feels like the truth. Because in my head, I am seeing someone. Doesn’t matter that Clover and I aren’t actually together. I’m all in, whether she is or not.
Maybe she’s not seeing me, but I’m sure as fuck seeing her.
Haley's eyes narrow and the flirty smile drops off her face. "Anyone I know?"
"I doubt it." I take another step back and turn toward the produce so she gets the message. "Good seeing you, Haley. Take care."
I’m gone before she can try another angle, grabbing fresh dill and a lemon on the way to the checkout. With a clearer head than I’ve had in days, I realize I’m done letting Clover steer this situation. Brenna said it herself: show up. So that’s what I’m doing.
I pay for my groceries and my plan churns in my mind all the way home. Enough pretending. Enough letting Clover decide every rule. She’s got this idea that it meant nothing, or that I’m not the guy who can handle more. She’s wrong.
It's time to stop lying to myself. To her. To everyone.
The apartment’s quiet when I step inside—no shock there. She’s supposed to be at class for another hour. But then I hear a retching noise coming from the bathroom.
“Clover?” I set the grocery bags on the counter, heart pounding. “You okay?”
A fresh wave of gagging is my only answer. I hurry to the bathroom and push open the door.
She’s on her knees, hugging the toilet, hair stuck to her forehead. Sweat glistens on her pale cheeks. She looks miserable as hell.
“Get out!” she chokes, voice cracking between heaves. “I don’t…want you seeing me like this.”
I ignore her, kneeling beside her anyway. I scoop her hair off her face with one hand and rub her back with the other, letting her throw up again.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve got you.”
Seeing her so vulnerable rips a hole right through my chest. My pulse is thrashing, and my hands shake as I do the only thing I can—offer support.
She tries feebly to push me away, but another round of nausea hits and she doubles over. I hold her hair and keep my hand moving in slow circles across her spine, helpless anger and worry tangling in my gut.
Finally, she sags against the toilet, exhausted. I flush away the evidence, then stand to wet a washcloth with cool water. Dropping back to my knees, I press it to her forehead, fighting the urge to gather her in my arms.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes scrunched shut.
“Taking care of you.” My thumb skims across her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair aside. “How long’s this been going on?”
“Started during class,” she admits, eyes squeezing shut at another wave of nausea. She leans into the cool cloth I’m pressing against her forehead, but it’s like she hates needing it. “I figured I’d get home and ride it out before you got back.”
“So I wouldn’t see you like this?” I can’t keep the hurt from creeping into my voice. “Clover, I don’t care if you’re puking your guts out—I care that you’re sick.”
She opens her eyes, and the raw vulnerability there twists a knife in my chest. “I hate being weak.”
“Being sick isn’t weak; it’s human.” Gently, I guide her upright, my arm steadying her when her legs wobble. She gives in, leaning against me. “Come on, rinse your mouth, then we’ll get you on the couch.”
She must feel like absolute hell, because she doesn’t argue. Five minutes later, she’s tucked under a blanket, a mixing bowl nearby just in case. I’m in the kitchen heating water for ginger tea and rummaging up saltines like my mom used to give me when I had a stomach bug as a kid. The memory makes me smile; I haven’t thought about it in years.
When I come back, she’s curled in on herself, looking a little pathetic. Something inside my chest tightens at the sight, this fierce protectiveness and possessiveness knot together with everything else I feel for her.
“Here.” I set the tea and crackers on the coffee table, then sit beside her. “Ginger should help your stomach.”
She blinks up at me, eyes glassy. “Why…why are you doing this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Taking care of me. You don’t have to.” She tries to sit up, and I immediately slip an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her. “I’m not asking you to, okay? I don’t need—”
Her words cut, but I push past it. Tonight’s obviously not the time to lay out all the feelings I’ve been obsessing over, but I can give her something. “Maybe I need to, ever think of that?”
She stares, clearly thrown by my honesty.
“Drink,” I say quietly, pressing the mug into her hands. “Small sips.”
For once she listens, and that’s how I know she must feel like shit. She watches me over the rim of the mug, her expression impossible to read. After a few careful swallows, she sets it down and sinks into the cushions, exhaustion radiating from every line of her body.
“I’m supposed to work tonight,” she mutters. “I need to call Navy.”
“Already done.” I pull out my phone, waving it slightly. “I texted her while the water was boiling. She says don’t worry about the bar—just get better.”
Clover glares at me with a mix of annoyance and reluctant gratitude. “So you just took over my life, huh?”
“Yep. But I promise I’ll give it back as soon as you’re on your feet.” Maybe. I can’t resist a small grin. “And don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same for me.”
She tries to muster some sass. “Would I?” But there’s no real bite behind the words.
"Yeah, you would." I brush her hair back from her face, letting my fingers linger longer than strictly necessary. "You act all tough, but you've got the biggest heart of anyone I know, Freckles."
She doesn’t snap at the nickname, and that says everything about how lousy she feels.
We sit in silence for a while, the only sounds are her occasional sips of tea and my phone buzzing with texts from Kasen asking about the Blazers game tomorrow night. I ignore it. Nothing else matters right now except the woman in front of me.
It doesn’t take long for the drowsiness to win out—her eyelids droop, and she shifts, pressing her head against my chest like she isn’t even aware she’s doing it. “Just until I feel better,” she whispers, voice barely audible. Her body settles into mine, fitting so well it’s like we're two pieces of a puzzle snapping into place.
I slide an arm around her, stroking her hair. “Take all the time you need.”
She’s out in minutes. I watch her breathe, every rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lashes rest on her cheeks. The constellation of freckles dusting her nose are mesmerizing, and I realize I’m grinning like an idiot.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” I murmur into her hair, letting the words free because she can’t hear them. But I swear there’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, like some part of her does.
Time slips by, my arm dead asleep beneath her. My back starts to twinge, but I don’t move. I’d sit here forever if she needed me to. Eventually, though, practical concerns—like my spine—force me to shift. Carefully, I slide an arm under her knees and another around her back, lifting her against my chest. She mumbles something and nestles closer, her fingers twisting in my shirt while I carry her into her room.
She clutches my sleeve even when I lay her down, and for a second, I consider leaving. I know she’s spent the last month enforcing walls between us. But she’s not letting go, and the truth is, I don’t want to leave. So I sit on the edge of her bed, running my fingertips through her hair and across her forehead, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the shape of her lips, the freckles I’d never be allowed to get close enough to study if she were awake.
“When did you start feeling like home?” I murmur, the question hanging between us in the quiet. I’m not sure when it happened—when she went from being my best friend’s sister to the center of my goddamn world. When her independence became the thing I respect the most, when her walls became something I want to climb and then guard instead of break down.
All I know is that somewhere between that first morning making coffee in her kitchen and tonight, watching her sleep, denial transformed into something that feels an awful lot like forever.
I force myself upright before I do something I can’t take back, like crawl in beside her and show her exactly how I feel. Standing in the doorway, I drink in the sight of her one more time—the woman I want, in the space we share but don’t really share, with the life she’s built that I’d give anything to be part of.
Casual, my ass. Nothing about my feelings for Clover James is casual. And I’ll prove it to her… one way or another.