34. CHAPTER THIRTY-THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THEO
The door bursts open behind me just as I reach my bike, footsteps hitting the pavement hard and fast, getting closer, and I close my eyes for half a second because of course he fucking followed me.
“Theo, wait.”
I grab the handlebars, already swinging my leg over when Connor’s hand closes around my wrist.
Pain shoots up my arm at the sudden pull, sharp enough to drag a sound out of me, tangled up with the frustration already choking me. I rip my wrist out of his grip and turn on him.
“Go back inside, Connor.”
Even to my own ears, I sound fucking exhausted.
Not angry. I wish I was angry. Anger I know what to do with.
This is worse.
Connor shakes his head. “No.”
He steps closer instead, and my eyes catch on him. He’s still wearing my fucking clothes. My T-shirt hanging off him. My joggers sitting low on his hips. He looks like he belongs in them, which feels like another kick to the chest after everything that just happened upstairs.
His eyes move over my face, a crease digging between his brows, and then his attention darts away.
Around us.
The street. The houses. The windows.
Checking.
Bitterness twists in my stomach.
Then his eyes snap back to mine. “Why are you acting like this?”
I stare at him.
For a second, I genuinely don’t know what to say.
A disbelieving scoff slips out of me. “You can’t be serious.”
Connor shifts, some of the certainty disappearing from his face. His gaze flickers away again, and there it is. That same inability to fucking look at me whenever this gets too close to something he doesn’t want to deal with.
“Oh, fucking hell.”
I shove a hand through my hair, dragging it back hard enough to sting my scalp. I want to get on the bike. I want to leave. More than anything, I want him to stop looking at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m pissed off when we both know exactly how this ends.
I blow out a slow breath, forcing some of the anger down because I don’t want to do this.
Not here.
Not with him.
“Just go back inside,” I say again, quieter now.
I’m not telling him anymore.
I’m fucking asking.
Connor’s chin lifts.
His arms fold across his chest, and I nearly laugh. That stubborn little set to his mouth means it doesn’t matter what I say now. He’s already decided.
“I don’t want to go back inside, Theo.” Every word comes out clipped. Controlled. “I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
I swing my leg back over the bike and plant both feet on the ground.
He wants to do this?
Fine.
I cross the space between us in one stride.
Connor’s head tips back when I stop in front of him, and for one stupid second, my body remembers every other time I’ve stood this close.
I hate that even now some part of me still wants to reach for him.
His eyes flick away again, looking around us, checking who might be able to see us.
My stomach drops.
He doesn’t step away, though. He holds himself exactly where he is, tension running through every inch of him like standing this close to me out here is costing him something.
I almost laugh.
“I’m so fucking tired—”
The rest catches behind my teeth.
Because if I start, I don’t know where the fuck it ends.
Connor’s gaze drops. His hands curl into fists at his sides before he shoves them into the pockets of my joggers.
“Don’t stop yourself on my account,” he spits.
“If you’re so fucking tired, then why do you keep coming back?”
Connor’s eyes widen slightly, like he hears them a second too late. Like maybe he didn’t mean for them to come out like that.
I nod slowly.
Something comes out of me that might be a laugh, except there’s nothing funny in it. It sounds hollow, and I rake my fingers through my hair again because I need to do something with my hands before I do something really fucking pathetic, like reach for him.
“Figures.”
My tongue clicks against my teeth, and I try to smile, but I can feel how wrong it sits on my face.
“That’s what I get for falling into bed with a straight guy, I guess.”
“I don’t—”
“No.”
I step back the second he starts.
Connor’s body shifts forward like he means to follow, and I put another step between us before he can.
I need the distance.
Because I know exactly what happens if he gets his hands on me again.
I fucking fold.
“Of course you don’t understand,” I breathe, shaking my head. “Why would you?”
His brows pull together.
“You’re getting everything you want.”
Connor, shakes his head. “That’s not—”
His hand comes up, reaching for me.
I move so fast I nearly trip over my own feet getting out of range, his hand hovering uselessly between us.
The hurt that flashes across his face almost breaks me.
“Theo.”
Fuck.
It’s quiet.
Small.
And every stupid fucking part of me reacts to it.
“Don’t.” My voice comes out hoarse. I swallow, but it does nothing to fix it. “Don’t say my fucking name like that.”
I shove my hand into my hair again, nails scraping over my scalp before my fingers knot there and pull.
My pulse is hammering against my throat, too fast, too fucking loud, and there’s pressure building behind my eyes that makes me want to put my fist through something.
I’m not crying over Connor fucking Reid.
“Fuck, Connor.”
A laugh tears out of me, broken somewhere in the middle.
My eyes burn.
I blink hard and keep looking at him anyway because if he wants this conversation so badly, then he can fucking look at what he’s doing to me.
“You can’t even admit it to yourself, can you?”
Connor recoils like I’ve hit him, his hand scraping over his jaw as he turns his face away from me. He can’t keep still. His weight shifts, his fingers drag through his hair, his eyes move everywhere except where I need them to stay.
On me.
“What am I supposed to do?” he shoots back, and his voice cracks, all that frustration finally pushing through the control he’s been clinging to.
Then his gaze flicks away again.
Over my shoulder. Across the street. Toward the houses around us.
Checking who might see.
Again.
Something inside my chest fucking caves.
Because I’m standing right in front of him trying not to fall apart, and some part of him is still more worried about whether someone might see us doing it.
I drop my gaze.
I can’t fucking look at him and say this. I don’t think I can look at him at all without doing something stupid, and my hands have started shaking enough that I need to give them something else to do.
My fingers dig into my pocket and close around my cigarettes.
I pull one out and shove it between my lips, flicking my lighter open. The flame jumps once before catching, trembling with my hand as I bring it closer.
“Anything,” I breathe around the cigarette. My voice sounds rough, barely fucking steady. “Anything is better than this.”
I drag in a breath before the end has even properly caught, smoke burning down my throat and filling my lungs. Usually it gives me a second. Something to concentrate on. The inhale, the burn, the familiar weight between my fingers.
It does fuck all now.
Connor is still all over me.
His aftershave is on my skin. I can smell him beneath the smoke, still caught in my hair, my shirt, probably the fucking sheets upstairs.
I can still feel his hands on me if I think about it for too long, the weight of him wrapped around me this morning, his mouth against mine while I asked him to stay.
My knees feel weak.
I take another drag, deeper this time, holding it until my lungs sting because maybe if I fill myself with enough smoke I can get rid of him for five fucking seconds.
“I don’t know what you want from me.”
I look up.
Connor’s frustration is written all over his face, his brows drawn together, mouth tight as he steps toward me.
Then he reaches out and plucks the cigarette straight from between my lips.
His other hand lands on my hip, pulling me in, and I fucking let him.
After everything I’ve just said, after standing here telling him how tired I am of this, my body folds the second his hand touches me. I step into him without even thinking, my chest brushing his as the space disappears, his fingers tightening at my hip like he knows I’ll stay if he holds me there.
A shaky breath slips out of me.
Pathetic.
I lift my eyes to his.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “You do.”
Connor’s brows pinch together.
I swallow, but my throat is closing up around the words. They’re right fucking there, the thing I’ve been trying not to say because saying it makes all of this real in a way I’m not sure I can survive.
But what does it matter now?
He already knows.
Maybe he’s always known.
“I wanted you.”
Connor’s jaw locks.
For one second, something naked crosses his face. Pain, maybe. Fear. I don’t fucking know anymore. It’s there and then gone, shoved straight back behind that same perfect control I’ve been trying to break through since the second I met him.
His fingers tighten around my hip, pulling me closer.
I almost fucking laugh.
Because this is exactly what I mean.
His body never lies to me.
There’s no space left between us now, my chest pressed to his, our breaths tangling between our mouths. I can feel the tension running through him, the way he leans into me even while some other part of him is trying desperately to hold back.
He wants me.
I know he fucking wants me.
That’s what makes this hurt so much.
Connor’s hand lifts to my face, his palm cupping my jaw, thumb brushing slowly beneath my cheekbone, my eyes closing as I lean into his hand.
Because I have absolutely no fucking self-respect left when it comes to Connor Reid.
His thumb moves over my skin again and I let myself stand there in his hands and pretend wanting me might finally be enough for him.
Then I open my eyes.
Connor is looking around again.
It’s quick. Barely a second. His gaze darts past me before coming back, teeth catching his bottom lip as he worries at it.
He leans in anyway.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs as his face comes closer, and I hate the way hope still manages to flare inside me. Even now. Even after everything.
His lips brush mine when he speaks.
“I can’t.”
Two words.
That’s all it takes.