39. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
THEO
The picture on my screen makes my heart stop.
Not fucking metaphorically either. For one second, everything inside me just stalls, my thumb freezing halfway through a scroll while I stare at the image like my brain has forgotten how to make sense of what I’m seeing.
Then my eyes drop to the handle beneath it.
Connor.
I check it again because apparently I’m a fucking idiot who thinks staring at his name twice might make it belong to someone else.
It doesn’t.
And then I see the caption.
Missing you.
My breath catches.
Two words. No name. No explanation. Nothing that actually says who the fuck he’s talking about.
So fucking Connor it almost makes me laugh.
I would if there was any air left in my lungs.
My thumb hovers uselessly over the screen for a second before I scroll down, even though I already know it’s a bad fucking idea.
Who?
Are you taken?
Who is he?
Question after question stacks beneath the post, people guessing, digging, asking Connor for the part he’s very fucking deliberately left out.
I keep scrolling anyway.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for until I realise I’m searching for him to deny it. Some sarcastic reply telling everyone they’ve got the wrong idea. Something that makes it clear this isn’t what it looks like, because that would make sense.
That would be Connor.
Except there’s nothing.
No denial.
No admission either, obviously, because apparently the stubborn little shit has found the exact middle ground most likely to fuck with my head.
I drag my gaze back to the picture before I can read another comment.
It’s careful.
That’s what gets me.
Careful enough that he hasn’t shown either of our faces. Careful enough that nobody who doesn’t know us would have any fucking clue who he’s sitting with.
But not careful enough to actually hide me.
My tattoos are right there beside his bare skin, dark ink covering my hand and wrist while Connor’s is completely untouched. Our fingers are laced together on my lap, his hand fitted through mine so naturally that something painful twists behind my ribs just looking at it.
I remember when he took this.
Fuck, I remember exactly how his hand felt in mine.
There’s a strip of my bare stomach caught at the bottom of the frame, Connor pressed into my side close enough that there’s no pretending we’re just two people who happened to be sitting next to each other.
Anyone who knows me could work it out.
Anyone who knows him could work it out.
And Connor posted it anyway.
My throat tightens.
What the fuck are you doing, princess?
The bench jolts beneath me with a loud creak, and I nearly jump out of my fucking skin as someone drops down beside me.
Marcus.
Of course.
He leans towards me immediately, eyes already trying to catch whatever’s on my phone, and I flip it face down against my thigh before he gets the chance.
My head snaps around.
“What do you want, Reid?”
The words come out harsher than they probably need to, but my chest is still doing something fucking weird and Marcus is about the last person I want sitting beside me while I try to work out why his brother has just posted a picture of us holding hands for the entire fucking internet to see.
Marcus doesn’t bite back.
That catches me off guard more than anything.
His hand comes up instead, settling against the back of my neck and squeezing once, familiar and grounding in a way I don’t particularly want from him right now.
He exhales. “I suppose that’s fair.”
I stare at him for a second before folding my arms over my chest and leaning back against the lockers.
“More than.”
My tongue catches the split in my lip when I press it into my cheek and pain stings through me. I drag it over the cut anyway, tasting copper and immediately remembering exactly who put it there.
Marcus slumps back beside me with a sigh, his shoulder knocking against mine.
“Fuck, man.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I’d just found out you were doing my kid brother.”
My jaw tightens immediately.
“He’s not a fucking kid, Marcus.”
The sharpness in my own voice surprises even me, but I don’t take it back.
I turn towards him properly, shaking my head. “He’s not. So stop fucking treating him like one.”
Because maybe Marcus can still look at Connor and see the kid who used to follow him around, but I can’t.
I see the stubborn little asshole who argues with everything I fucking say.
The one who grabs my shirt when he’s jealous and looks at me like he wants to fucking eat me alive before panicking about what that means.
The one who can bring me to my knees with a look and somehow still convince himself he doesn’t know what he wants.
The one who just posted a picture of us for everyone to see.
My eyes almost drop back to my phone.
I stop myself.
Marcus exhales beside me and drops his head, dragging his hand through his hair before letting it fall between his knees.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I know.”
There’s enough weight behind it that I look at him again.
He lifts his head, and for once there’s none of the usual bullshit in his expression. No anger. No big-brother posturing. Just Marcus looking tired and slightly fucking guilty.
“I’m sorry, alright?”
I stare at him.
My split lip throbs.
“You punched me in the fucking face.”
Marcus winces.
“Yeah.”
I lift a brow.
“Not my finest moment.”
“No fucking shit.”
“No,” I shoot back immediately. “Not alright.”
Marcus’s brows pull together, some of the frustration creeping back into his expression. “I thought you broke his heart.”
Like that somehow makes punching me in the fucking face reasonable.
A dark laugh scrapes out of my throat as I shake my head. “Yeah, because I’m the serial heartbreaker, right?” I scoff. The words should sound like a joke. Usually they would. Right now they just taste bitter. “Well, newsflash, asshole, I didn’t break Connor’s fucking heart.”
If anything, I’m pretty fucking sure it was the other way around.
I grab my phone and push myself off the bench before that thought can make it anywhere near my mouth. I don’t want to talk about Connor with Marcus. I definitely don’t want to explain how many chances I gave him to break my heart before he finally fucking managed it.
I barely make it a step before Marcus catches my wrist and yanks me backwards.
“What the fuck?”
I land hard beside him again with a grunt, shooting him a glare as he releases me.
“I’m trying to apologise,” he snaps, irritation cutting through his voice. “So sit your ass down.”
I stare at him.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“Yes.”
“You just dragged me back onto the bench.”
“Because you were leaving.”
“Yeah, generally when someone walks away, that’s what they’re doing.”
Marcus’s eyes narrow.
Mine narrow straight back.
For a second, we just glare at each other, and it’s so fucking familiar that some of the tension in my chest loosens despite myself.
This is us. This is the shit we know how to do.
Not Connor. Not whatever the fuck happened between us.
Just Marcus being an overbearing dick and me wanting to punch him for it.
I drop back against the lockers with a huff and fold my arms across my chest.
“Yeah, well, you fucking suck at apologising.”
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it.
Marcus catches it, obviously, but thankfully doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops instead, landing on the phone still clutched in my hand, and something in his expression shifts.
Too interested.
I turn the screen slightly towards my thigh.
“He told me what happened.”
Every bit of amusement disappears.
My shoulders lock before I can stop them, and I hate that Marcus probably feels it beside me.
“I doubt that,” I scoff, turning my head away.
Because Connor can barely admit what happened to himself. I have a hard time believing he sat Marcus down and gave him a detailed fucking account.
I lean harder against the lockers, stretching my legs out in front of me and trying to look like I couldn’t give less of a shit about this conversation.
My pulse ruins the effect.
Marcus shifts beside me and his hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing once.
Firm.
Careful.
Way too fucking gentle.
My skin crawls.
I don’t want sympathy from Marcus. I don’t want him looking at me like he knows how badly Connor got under my skin, because then I have to acknowledge that everyone else can fucking see it too.
“He regrets it.”
My head snaps around.
Marcus is already watching me.
For one stupid fucking second, my chest lifts with something dangerously close to hope.
I crush it immediately.
“Stay out of it, Reid.”
The warning comes out low enough that Marcus grimaces.
“Trust me, I’m trying.” He drags a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. “But it’s kind of hard when my best friend’s screwing my brother.”
Something must happen to my face.
I don’t even know what.
A twitch. A look. Some tiny fucking betrayal I don’t catch quickly enough, because Marcus stops.
His eyes widen.
I stare back at him.
His mouth falls open.
“Oh God.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Marcus drags both hands down his face. “He’s screwing you.”
“Marcus.”
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse.”
He actually fucking shudders, dropping his head into his hands like he’s just been forced to witness something traumatic, and despite everything, a laugh presses at the back of my throat.
I bite it down.
Barely.
“No one’s screwing anyone,” I grit out.
The words hit wrong the second they leave my mouth.
Because they’re true.
And I fucking hate that they’re true.
Marcus slowly lifts his head.
One eyebrow rises.
Then the bastard starts smiling.
I already regret speaking.
“But you want to be.”
“Fuck off.”
His grin gets wider.
I shake my head, looking away before he catches the way my own mouth is trying to twitch. “Stop fucking meddling.”
“I’m not meddling.”
“You’re literally sitting here discussing who fucks who in a relationship you’re not part of.”
Marcus’s face twists. “Do not call it a relationship while we’re talking about fucking. I’m still adjusting.”
That does pull a quiet laugh out of me, rough enough that my split lip immediately protests.
I hiss and run my tongue carefully over it.
“Serves you right,” Marcus mutters.
“You fucking did it.”
“Still.”
I roll my eyes, but the anger I had when he sat down has mostly drained out of me now, leaving behind something heavier.
My phone is still in my hand.
I look down before I can stop myself and tap the screen awake.
There it is again.
Connor’s hand threaded through mine.
Missing you.
My chest tightens exactly the same way it did the first time.
I stare at the picture, taking in all those little things Connor could have hidden and didn’t. My tattoos. Our hands. The way he’s pressed against me.
He regrets it.
Marcus’s words slip straight through the cracks in every wall I’ve been trying to put back up.
And fuck me, hope comes with them.
Small at first. Just a flicker of warmth low in my chest, but I feel it spreading before I can stop it, finding places Connor already left too fucking exposed.
I should know better.
I do know better.
A vague post doesn’t change what happened. Missing me doesn’t mean Connor can give me what I need. Regretting it doesn’t mean he’s suddenly ready to stop hiding.
But he posted us.
Not enough for strangers to know.
Enough for anyone who matters to recognise me.
I stare at it for another second, thumb hovering uselessly near the bottom of the screen.
Then I lock my phone and drop it into my lap.
Because apparently not looking at it is the closest I can get to pretending it hasn’t just made me hope again.