Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Jason
How Not to Get Killed By the Hands of Your Best Friend
Leif’s face is doing that thing—veins bulging, murder flashing in his eyes—the look that usually ends with someone getting punched. Most likely, that’d be me.
I toss up my hands in surrender, like that’s going to save me from bodily harm, words babbling out before I can even think to stop them.
“Look, it’s not what it looks like—well, actually, it is what it looks like—but it’s not what you think.
Unless you think I just kissed your sister because I really, really like her, in which case, yes, that’s exactly what it is—fuck, I sound stupid. ”
Scottie’s stiff at my side, her body buzzing like she’s caught in a bear trap. Her arm brushes mine—maybe by accident, perhaps not—and she doesn’t pull away. Good sign? Maybe. Bigger, bloodier target on my back? Definitely.
Leif doesn’t say anything. Just glares. If looks could kill, I’d be a stain on the grass right now, already halfway buried, but not before he personally snaps both my legs like a Thanksgiving wishbone.
I suck in a breath, shoulders tense, somehow forcing the next words out without choking on them. “I’m serious, man. I’m not—” I glance sideways at Scottie, who looks ready to either bolt or melt into the goddamn ground. “I’m not playing around. I wouldn’t hurt her. Like, ever.”
Leif’s jaw tics so hard I’m half worried he’s about to unhinge it like a snake and swallow me whole. His hands tighten on the stroller handle like he’s imagining it’s my neck.
Silence stretches between us, thick enough to cut with a butter knife—and I’m the idiot who forgot the knives.
Scottie doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.
Then—barely—she shifts a fraction closer to me. Her shoulder brushes mine again. Tiny. Insignificant. Earth-shattering.
Leif notices. Of course, he notices. His nostrils flare like a goddamn bull about to charge, but he exhales sharply like he’s counting to ten so he doesn’t murder me in front of a baby.
Finally, he jerks his chin at Scottie, sharp and grim, like this is some weird sibling courtroom drama. “What the fuck are you thinking, Scottie? He—no. You and him, no. You can’t, Ella Crawford. I forbid you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Scottie beats me to it, her voice tight and defensive. “I’m thinking I don’t need your input into who I can and can’t kiss, Leif.”
“Oh, you need someone to run a background check on him and an STI panel, and . . . for fuck’s sake, Scottie.” Leif, who’s usually very chill, is losing his cool and about to explode. “He’s Jason fucking Tate.”
“That’s not an argument!” she fires back.
“It’s Jason,” Leif repeats, like my name alone is an indictment punishable by death.
“I’m right here, buddy,” I mutter, half-raising my hand. “Fully sentient. Not a stray cat you found under a porch. Plus, I’m your best friend—and the guy who knows all your dirty secrets—which are worse than mine.”
Leif turns his glare on me so fast that I physically flinch.
“You?” he says, voice dripping with disbelief. “You’re not exactly a safe bet. I know you. I’ve partied with you. I’ve bailed you out of your own fucking plans when they go wrong.”
“Okay, first of all,” I say, holding up a finger, “that was one time, and it wasn’t even that bad?—”
“You set a ping pong table on fire.”
“I was framed,” I argue. “And it was technically more of a smolder than a fire.”
Scottie groans under her breath, dragging a hand down her face. “You two are unbelievable.”
“Excuse me for trying to keep you from ending up with a human dumpster fire,” Leif shoots back, crossing his arms like he’s issuing a final verdict.
Scottie glares at him. “He’s not a dumpster fire.”
I grin despite myself. “Thanks, babe.”
“Don’t call her babe,” Leif snaps.
“I’m just saying,” I say, hands up again, voice half-laughing because otherwise, I might actually die, “if the court would allow it, I’d like to enter evidence into the record that I have a stable job, a place to live, and zero criminal convictions.”
Leif glares. Scottie stares at me like she’s torn between laughing and smacking me.
“Also,” I add, because clearly I have no survival instincts left, “I make really good bacon. She’ll never go hungry in the morning. I can’t guarantee the rest of the day because I only know how to cook a few things, but . . . I’ll figure it out—or steal your chef.”
Scottie snorts out a laugh she tries to smother with her hand. Leif looks like he might actually pass out from rage.
“You’re not touching our chef,” he snaps.
I shrug. “That’s not the point, Crawford. I’m just saying that I’ll figure out a way to treat her like a queen.”
He narrows his gaze. “You’re serious about this?” he demands, still laser-locked on me.
“Dead serious,” I say without hesitation.
“And you’re not just . . . fucking around?”
“No,” I say, voice low, real, cutting through all the banter. “Not even close.”
Silence again. Heavy. Shifting.
Leif’s mouth tightens like he’s tasting the words he doesn’t want to say. Finally, he mutters, “You fuck this up, Tate, and I’ll break every bone you’ve got.”
Scottie huffs, but before she can jump in, I nod.
“Fair,” I say. “I’d help you.”
That seems to catch him off guard. His scowl wavers—barely—but it’s enough.
“You,” he growls, pinning me with another glare, “are on thin fucking ice.”
Before I can promise to stay the hell away from frozen ponds forever, he pivots the stroller so hard that the front wheels skid sideways and strides off like a man with a vendetta to plot.
I catch snatches of him muttering under his breath—something about “goddamn geniuses,” “Central Park make-outs,” and “innocent babies witnessing this shit,” followed by a dark threat about “not bailing me out when his sister destroys me.”
Luna, bless her tiny, oblivious heart, blows a wet raspberry as they fade down the path.
I exhale shakily, dragging a hand through my hair, still trying to piece together how close I just came to getting buried in Central Park.
“So . . . on a scale of one to medieval torture devices, how screwed am I right now?” I ask.
Scottie snorts—an actual, tiny, glorious snort—and shoves her hands deeper into the sleeves of my hoodie.
“Somewhere between guillotine and tar-and-feathering,” she mutters.
“And that was just one of them. Wait until he tells the twins. Kill’s gonna go full Spanish Inquisition on your ass.
Kade will help him bury the body. Lucian might get here first and teach you a lesson—or two.
I’m not sure about Greyson. He’s not really into medieval torture, but he’s .
. . resourceful. You’ll never see it coming. ”
“Excellent,” I say brightly, grinning like I would take anything as long as she’s cool that we’re together . . . or some resemblance of that. “Do you think bringing pretzels to my execution will help or hurt?”
She gives me a look—one of those exhausted, fond ones that makes my ribs ache if I think about it too hard. It’s not quite a glare this time. Closer to something warmer. Something dangerous.
We stand there for a moment, the air stretching thin between us, neither of us quite sure how to move forward without screwing it all up again. I shift my weight, scratching the back of my neck because I’m too much of a coward to reach for her outright.
“Come on,” I say, softer now. “Let me walk you home.”
I brace myself for the no; for the moment, she shuts me out for good.
But after a beat, Scottie hesitates—just enough for the war to flash across her face.
Run or stay. Deny or maybe—just maybe—trust.
Then she nods.
Once. Sharp and defiant, like she’s not agreeing to a walk but daring herself to believe in something more.
I fall into step beside her, keeping a polite distance even though every nerve in my body itches to close it. To brush my hand against hers. To pull her back into me and pick up exactly where we left off before her brother decided to crash our lives with a stroller.
We weave through the waking city in near silence. Coffee carts clang to life. Dogs tug at their leashes. A busker plays a rough version of ‘Here Comes the Sun’ somewhere in the distance. Life is moving forward like nothing catastrophic just happened.
The tension between us unwinds, slowly and cautiously, thread by fragile thread.
She bumps her shoulder into mine at a crosswalk—not hard, but deliberate—and mumbles, “You’re an idiot. That whole speech . . . bacon.” She snorts under her breath. “Just a reminder that I can’t take care of myself.”
I shrug slightly, letting a grin creep across my mouth. “I know you can.” I glance at her sideways. “But let’s get this straight . . . I’m your idiot. Kind of. Hopefully, with that title comes a lot of responsibilities, like making sure you’re happy.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile—and this time, she doesn’t pull away.
We reach her building way too soon, and the closer we get, the more she seems to fold in on herself. Tucking into her armor again. Like once we cross that invisible line, all of this—everything we could’ve had in the sunlight—gets left behind on the sidewalk.
I linger at the bottom step. Hands jammed into my pockets to keep from reaching out like a completely desperate asshole. She turns to face me, hoodie sleeves swallowed up around her fists, hair a little wild from the breeze, looking so gorgeous it actually hurts to breathe.
“Thanks,” she says, voice low, almost shy.
“For what?” I ask, tilting my head.
“For . . . not making it worse.”
I bark out a laugh, surprised by the honesty in it. “Is that the official Crawford stamp of approval? ‘Didn’t Make It Worse’?”
Her lips curve, not a full smile but something close enough to make my heart do a dumb, hopeful skip.
It’s a moment. A stupid, precious, perfect fucking moment—and for one terrifying second, I think about leaning in. About kissing her again and daring the whole goddamn universe to stop me.
Instead, I rock back on my heels and say, “Text me if you need anything. Or if you want to yell at me. Or if you just want more pretzels. Or sex. Really, I’m flexible.”
Scottie bites her lip, the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh—and loses. A soft, breathy sound that cracks open the world just a little bit wider.
“Okay,” she says so quietly, it’s almost a secret.
The doorman glances over, recognizing her, and pushes open the door with a nod. Scottie flashes him a quick smile before slipping inside, vanishing into the lobby with one last look over her shoulder—one that just about drops me to my knees.
I wait until she’s safely inside before turning away, grinning like a goddamn lunatic as I head down the street.
Hope, as it turns out, is a hell of a drug.
And I’m already addicted.