Chapter 12 #2
The words come out automatic—teasing, not scolding. The kind of line you say when you’re trying to pretend you’re annoyed, even though the truth is the opposite.
Because I’m not annoyed. I’m relieved.
Her chaos is loud in the best way. It fills space before it can turn heavy. It turns awkward into funny. It makes everything feel less like a test I’m failing and more like a moment I’m allowed to be in.
Whitney just blinks at me, completely unbothered.
“Because someone has to keep things interesting,” she says, shrugging.
I believe her.
I also know “interesting” can be a shield. A way to stay in control while looking like you’re not trying at all.
I’ve worn my own version of that—let them call you a brand, let them decide who you are, because it’s easier than letting anyone get close enough to be disappointed.
“And,” she adds, pointing at me like she’s about to accuse me in court, “you’re lying. You remember your gamertag. You’re just embarrassed to admit it.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” I manage.
She cracks her knuckles dramatically and starts typing.
My body goes alert. “What are you doing?”
“Registering you,” she says sweetly. “You said you forgot your login.”
“I didn’t say you could name me.”
“Too late,” she replies without looking up.
I lean over her shoulder instinctively—too close—and my voice drops before I can stop it.
“Whitney.”
“Yes, Connor?”
“What did you name me?”
She hits enter.
The confirmation chime sounds cheerful and innocent, like it’s not about to wound my pride.
“LittleDinghy,” she announces.
I stare at the screen in horror. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I absolutely did.”
“That is a crime,” I say flatly.
“It felt nautical,” she says, tilting her head. “On brand. Humbling.”
I drag a hand down my face. “Well, it’s not giving me much confidence.”
She scans me up and down, lips twitching. “Trust me, your confidence is just fine.”
She loads the game and chooses a mission, all while giving me a rundown of the basics.
It’s not necessary, because my thumbs immediately know what to do. My focus snaps into place like it’s always been there—strategy, timing, problem-solving—like I can control this, at least.
Whitney watches me like she’s pleased, and it makes my chest squeeze with pride.
“You always take that route?” I ask, already talking trash.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s strategic.”
“It’s reckless.”
“I like danger.”
I glance at her and catch a small smile. “I can tell.”
She kicks my ankle lightly. “Eyes on the screen, Fisk.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
We play and argue and laugh. And get way too competitive.
Somewhere in the middle of it, my guard drops a notch—not enough to be stupid, just enough to forget, for one second, how much I regret not showing up.
The coffee shop flashes through my mind.
Her sitting there with an extra chair pulled out, checking the door like she was trying to pretend she didn’t care.
I didn’t even give her the decency of an excuse.
I told myself I was protecting everyone—that it was better to disappear than to let her see who I was.
But watching her now—bright, animated, and unapologetic—it’s impossible to not picture how that silence must have felt.
My stomach twists.
By the end of the round, we’re shoulder to shoulder, knees touching, arguing over who caused the ship to sink.
“You rammed the dock.”
“You told me to ram the dock,” she says.
“I said approach the dock.”
“Same thing,” she laughs, and the sound does something stupid to my chest.
I find myself staring at her—not just checking her out, though yeah, that, too—but watching her like my brain is filing the moment away. Like I’m collecting proof I’m going to crave later.
Whitney catches me and lifts a brow. “What?”
My mouth opens.
This is it. The moment where I tell her the truth—just the part that matters.
I’m DreamBoat. I’m sorry I didn’t show.
Because every second I don’t tell her, I’m stealing something from her. I’m letting her build a version of me that’s missing the ugliest part. And it makes me a selfish prick.
And the worst part is that I want to keep being selfish.
I want to keep today the way it is—funny and charged and easy. Nude dogs and melting ice cream and her laughter in my ear again, except this time it’s not a headset. It’s real. I want to box it up and label it DO NOT OPEN and pretend that’s enough.
But now that I’ve had a taste of what it’s like to be in Whitney’s orbit, I’m already certain I can’t stop myself from drifting back in.
Before I can get a single word out, the front door opens.
“Whit?” Winnie calls, voice sunny. “I’m home—”
My spine goes rigid like I just got caught doing something I have no business doing.
Whitney turns toward the entryway like everything is normal. “We’re in here!”
Winnie appears, tote bag on her shoulder, eyes flicking between us and the controller in my hands.
“Oh,” she says, smiling slowly. “What’s going on here?”
Heat crawls up my neck.
Whitney, of course, looks delighted. “Connor’s learning Sea of Thieves.”
“I’m losing at Sea of Thieves,” I correct automatically.
Whitney grins. “He’s being dramatic.”
Winnie’s gaze lands on me, amused. “Hi, Connor.”
“Hi,” I manage, like a normal person—like my chest isn’t tight for a reason that has nothing to do with gaming.
This is my out. The universe handing me a clean exit before I make a choice I can’t undo.
I set the controller down carefully like it’s suddenly become a ticking bomb.
“Okay,” I say, standing too fast. “Now I should definitely go.”
Winnie drops into a chair adjacent to the couch. “Don’t leave on my account.”
“It’s fine,” I say, forcing a shrug. “We were done with the game. And I need to check in on Pussy.”
“Pussy?” Winnie’s eyes widen.
“His cat,” Whitney answers for me, far too pleased.
I shake my head on instinct. “She’s not really my cat.”
“You can keep telling yourself that, buddy. Doesn’t make it any more true.”
I ignore the way that word—buddy—lands like she’s already claimed a spot in my life and is daring me to argue.
I give Winnie an awkward wave goodbye and head for the door before I do something reckless, like turn around and tell Whitney everything.
At the threshold, Whitney tilts her head up at me, eyes bright and wicked. “See you at practice tomorrow, LittleDinghy.”
My gaze drops to her mouth and snaps back up like I got burned.
“Yeah,” I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be. “See you.”
Then, I leave—because if I stay one more minute, I might tell her the truth, and I’m not sure I’d be able to stop there.