Chapter 30
thirty
. . .
CONNOR
I miss the target because I’m looking at her.
It’s a quick glance, the kind that should be harmless, but it’s enough to throw off my timing, and the screen flashes black.
“Connor,” she says immediately, half laugh, half accusation, “what was that?”
I drag my focus back to the screen like I didn’t just completely blow that. “Lag.”
“There is no lag,” she shoots back, already adjusting for me, sliding into position like she’s been expecting me to mess it up. “You literally watched that happen and still missed it.”
I huff out a quiet breath, forcing my attention forward, but it’s not staying, because she’s here.
In my room. On my bed. Wearing my hoodie like she didn’t just stand in the hallway five minutes ago and pretend she was here to give it back, only to immediately pull it back over her head like that plan fell apart the second she saw me.
Like she forgot what she came for. Or remembered something else instead.
And then there’s the moment—when she took off the hoodie, just for a second, and I got a glimpse of bare skin and that thin sports bra doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that she was cold.
Or maybe she wasn’t cold. My brain didn’t bother analyzing it, because it was too busy sending signals to my dick.
My grip tightens slightly on the controller.
Yeah, bad timing to have a memory like that.
“Earth to Connor,” she says, nudging her knee into mine. “You with me, or should I finish this on my own?”
“I’ve got it,” I say, even though she’s not wrong.
“I don’t think you do.”
“I’m multitasking.”
“With what?” she asks, glancing over, one eyebrow lifting. “Losing?”
I let out a quiet laugh despite myself, adjusting, trying to get back into rhythm. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed,” she says, which is a lie. “You’re the one spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You missed a stationary target.”
“It moved.”
“It’s stationary. It didn’t move.”
I shake my head, but there’s no real defense there, so I just focus on the next sequence, letting muscle memory take over while my brain tries very hard not to replay the way she looked in my clothes. Or out of them. Or halfway between.
Yeah. Not helping.
“Left,” she says quickly.
“I see it.”
“You don’t see it.”
“I see it, SailorGirl.”
She stills, her head tilting slightly as she cuts me a look out of the corner of her eye, like she’s deciding whether to call me on it or let it go.
“Don’t call me that,” she says, but there’s no real edge to it.
I glance at her, catching the way her mouth presses together for a second, like she’s trying not to react, like she doesn’t really hate it.
“You used to like it.”
“That was before you ghosted, and lied to me,” she shoots back, the response automatic.
I nod, because there’s nothing to argue there. “That’s fair.”
The moment could shift right there, tip into something heavier, but she lets it go, turning back to the screen instead.
“Right,” she says, refocusing. “Try not to screw this up.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You don’t—Connor.”
I adjust at the last second, hitting exactly where she was directing me, and the screen flashes success.
She pauses, just long enough to look at me again, her expression recalibrating.
“…Okay,” she admits. “That was decent.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I’m absolutely getting used to it.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and something about that—about how easily we slip into this, how natural it feels to sit here shoulder to shoulder like nothing between us is broken—settles low in my chest in a way that’s both steady and a little dangerous.
Because I want more of it.
That’s the simplest version of the truth.
She nudges me again, more deliberate this time. “Focus.”
“I’m focused.”
“You’re not—” She cuts herself off, groaning. “Oh my god, Connor, what are you doing?”
“Improvising.”
“You aren’t allowed to improvise.”
“It’s working.”
“It’s not—wait.” She leans in closer, eyes narrowing at the screen, her arm brushing mine as she points. “Go right. No, your other right—”
“I know my right.”
“You don’t know your right.”
“I absolutely know my—”
I correct at the last second, landing exactly where she was guiding me, and the screen flashes success again.
She goes still for a second, then slowly turns her head to look at me.
“Okay,” she says, more quietly this time. “Maybe you’re not completely useless.”
“I’m saving that.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m saving it.”
She shakes her head, but there’s no heat behind it, just that same easy energy that’s been building since she walked in—something light, familiar, a little too comfortable.
For a moment, it’s just this.
Her laugh. The warmth of her shoulder against mine. The way she forgets, for a few seconds at a time, that she’s supposed to keep me at a distance.
Like she wants this, too.
And then, something in her shifts.
It’s subtle, but I feel it—the way her posture straightens slightly, the way her fingers tighten around the controller like she caught herself slipping.
“You don’t get to be this good at things,” she mutters.
I glance at her. “At video games?”
“At—” She stops, exhales, then tries again. “At everything.”
“That sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not,” she says quickly, frustration creeping in. “It’s—”
She gestures toward me, like she can’t quite find the right words, and then they all come out at once.
“Just because you’re fun and charming and—” she cuts herself off, then pushes through it anyway, “—and annoyingly attractive doesn’t mean I’ve decided you’re off the hook.”
Silence settles between us for a second. Then, she freezes, like she heard herself mid-sentence and didn’t like it.
“That came out wrong,” she mutters.
“Did it?” I don’t bother hiding the grin. “You think I’m annoyingly attractive.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I said it in a negative context,” she insists, gripping the controller like that might help her case.
“There is no negative context for that.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“And what’s the point?” I ask.
She hesitates, like she’s deciding how much she wants to give me, then reins it back in.
“The point is,” she says more evenly, “you don’t get to just be this version of you and have everything be fine.”
I nod, not arguing it. “I know.”
She huffs, but she doesn’t move. Doesn’t look back at the screen, either.
Instead, she looks at me, and everything shifts.
It’s quieter now, the game still running in the background, forgotten.
I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away, giving her every chance to stop this before it starts, and for a second she doesn’t move at all.
Her breath catches, soft and uneven, her lips parting just slightly as her eyes flick to my mouth and then back up again, like she’s trying to stay present and failing a little, like she’s already halfway there and knows it.
The space between us narrows until there’s nothing left of it, until I can feel her breath against my lips, warm and unsteady, and it would be so easy—too easy—to close that last inch and find out what happens if I do.
Her hand shifts against the bed, fingers curling into the blanket like she’s bracing for something, like she’s trying to hold onto a line that’s already slipping.
“Connor.”
My name comes out quiet and rough around the edges, like it surprised her as much as it did me. I don’t stop—not yet, not when she hasn’t pulled away and is still looking at me like that.
Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, and something in my chest tightens, because if I kiss her now, I won’t be able to stop.
She exhales, shaky, her forehead almost brushing mine as she whispers, “Wait—”
But it’s not firm, or anything close to a real stop, and I have to force myself to hold there anyway, to stay exactly where I am even though every instinct I have is telling me to close the distance and deal with the consequences later.
“I don’t want you to regret this,” I say quietly, the words coming out lower than I expect, rough with everything I’m not doing.
Her eyes open again, and something shifts there. It’s not disappointment, but recognition, like she knows exactly what I’m saying and hates that I’m right.
Her lips press together for a second, like she’s pulling herself back into something steadier, something safer, even as the rest of her lingers right where she is.
“Yeah,” she breathes, softer now, more controlled.
We should move, but we don’t. We stay there, suspended in it, close enough that it still feels like it could happen if either of us shifts the wrong way, still close enough that pulling back doesn’t actually fix anything.
When she finally does lean away, it’s slow, reluctant, just enough distance to breathe, to think, to remember all the reasons why she should.
She huffs out a quiet breath, like she’s frustrated with herself for even getting that close, then drags a hand through her hair and sits up fully, putting space between us like it’s the only way she’s going to get her head back on straight.
“Yeah,” she mutters, more to herself than to me. “That wasn’t a great idea.”
I don’t trust myself to respond to that in a way that won’t make things worse, so I stay where I am, watching her as she swings her legs off the bed and stands, smoothing her hands down her thighs like she can physically reset the moment.
She hesitates for half a second, like she might say something else, like she’s debating whether to acknowledge what just happened or pretend it didn’t.
She chooses the second option.
“Anyway,” she says, too casually, already backing toward the door, “I should probably go.”
“Yeah. Probably.” I force something lighter into my voice even though my body is very much not on board with that plan.
She nods once, quick, like that settles it, then reaches for the door handle.
For a second, I think she might look back, but she doesn’t.
Then, the door clicks shut behind her, and the room goes quiet.
I drop my head back against the mattress and let out a slow breath.
Yeah, that didn’t fix anything.
The next morning, I spot Whitney the second the elevator dings.
She steps into the lobby like she’s been launched into it—hair still damp at the ends, Rising Tides polo tucked into an athletic skirt that hits mid-thigh, tote slipping off her shoulder as she tries to fix three things at once.
She scans the room, flustered, running late, and still absolutely stunning.
It hits me hard enough to make my chest squeeze, but I force myself to ignore it.
I push off the wall and cross to her before she can fully launch into a panic.
“Morning, SailorGirl.”
She startles just enough to be honest about it, then recovers fast, eyes narrowing like she’s deciding what to do with me.
“Not today,” she says, breath a little rushed. “I’m late.”
“Yeah. I noticed.” I hold out the coffee first, then the foil-wrapped burrito. “Figured you’d need this.”
She hesitates for half a second, then takes both, still eyeing me like this might be a trap.
“You walk around with backup breakfasts?”
“Only for you.” The honesty comes out easily. It’s probably a good thing considering my history with not revealing the truth to her.
Her mouth curves into a beaming smile. “Thank you.”
“Eat,” I say, turning toward the doors. “Tate’s been texting. We’ve only got ten minutes before she starts spiraling.”
“Perfect,” she mutters, falling into step beside me, already unwrapping the burrito. “Nothing like being late and filmed.”
Tate meets us just outside the hotel with a camera in one hand and a tote bag slung over her shoulder, already mid-sentence about lighting, timing, and how she needs something “natural but still scroll-stopping.”
Whitney nods like she understands exactly what that means, takes one last bite of the burrito, then hands me the foil without looking.
I take it without comment.
We roll through a quick intro clip first—both of us side by side, talking about the Rising Tides tour, the importance of access, the usual beats. Whitney slips into it easily, voice steady, smile relaxed in a way that feels real instead of rehearsed.
I follow her lead, keep it clean, keep it simple.
Tate adjusts angles, has us reset twice, then waves us forward toward the next setup.
“Walk and talk,” she says. “Just keep it natural.”
Whitney glances at me, one brow lifting.
“Natural,” she echoes lightly.
I huff out a quiet breath. “I’ll try not to ruin it.”
We start down the sidewalk, close enough that our shoulders almost brush. She takes a sip of her coffee, then lowers it, eyes flicking to me.
“So,” she says, voice pitched just for me, “is this where you give me your media-trained answers, or do I get the real version?”
“Depends,” I say. “You asking as Whitney or SailorGirl?”
Her mouth curves, quick and sharp. “Whitney.”
That familiar chest squeeze hits me again. I ignore it.
“Then yeah,” I say. “You get the real version.”
Behind us, Tate makes a soft, approving sound.
“Okay, that’s good,” she calls. “You two are annoyingly natural together.”
Whitney glances back over her shoulder. “Us?”
“Yeah, you,” Tate says, not looking up from her screen. “There’s actual chemistry happening. Try not to overthink it.”
Whitney lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she faces forward again.
“Chemistry,” she murmurs, like she doesn’t quite buy it.
I glance at her. “Must be the lighting.”
She bumps her shoulder lightly into mine as we keep walking, like it’s nothing, when we both know the truth.
Tate claps once behind us. “Great. Keep that energy.”
We wrap the last segment near the venue, grab a few quick shots with sponsors—handshakes, smiles, a couple of staged conversations that Whitney somehow makes feel genuine—and then Tate finally lowers the camera.
“Good. That’s usable,” she says, already checking something on her screen. “Go be charming inside.”
Whitney exhales beside me, tension bleeding out of her shoulders now that the camera’s off.
“Is it too late to fake a sudden illness?” she asks.
“Probably,” I say. “But I respect the instinct.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, glancing up at me, and for a second it’s just us—no camera, no expectations, no script.
I hold her gaze a beat too long, then step back.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the entrance. “Let’s go raise some money.”