SIXTEEN.
Ever
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Let go.
I toss Tobias’s soaked clothes into the washing machine and lean back against the laundry room wall, staring at the blank space in front of me while my thoughts spin faster than I can catch them.
I invited him inside—knowing he was covered in mud, knowing the only way he’d be able to step farther than the entryway was to strip down—and he did it without hesitation. What the hell was I thinking?
I draw in a shaky breath, trying to steady the wild flutter in my chest, and glance down at myself. Mud cakes the hem of my jeans, my tank top clings to my skin, outlining every curve I suddenly feel far too aware of. I need to change before I lose what little composure I have left.
I move quietly through the kitchen, padding down the hallway to my bedroom at the far end.
I ease the door closed with a soft thud and strip quickly, the wet fabric landing in a heap on the floor.
My body freezes mid-motion when I hear a door open and close somewhere down the hall.
He must be taking me up on the offer to borrow something from Ray’s boxes.
But after seeing him bare like that, I doubt anything in those boxes will fit his frame.
I pull on clean pajama shorts and a soft tank top, the fabric light and cool against my still-damp skin.
In the bathroom across the hall, I run a brush through my tangled hair, picking out stray twigs and bits of leaves the storm left behind, then smooth my hands down my stomach as though that small motion could calm the relentless butterflies rioting inside me.
Footsteps echo faintly down the hall again, then retreat toward the living room.
I exhale slowly, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. There’s nothing more I can do to make myself look less like I just ran through a monsoon—nothing that would hide the flush on my cheeks or the way my pulse jumps at the thought of walking back out there.
My heart thuds hard against my ribs as I ease into the living room. Tobias sits sprawled on the couch, still in nothing but his briefs, legs spread comfortably, phone held up so the screen’s glow carves sharp angles across his face.
His eyes lift slowly to mine. He doesn’t rush the look—he takes his time, gaze traveling from my bare feet, up my legs, over the soft cotton clinging to my hips and chest, lingering at my throat and lips before finally meeting my eyes again.
I bite down on my lip, trying not to think about the last time we were alone together, the heat of his mouth on mine, the way his hands had felt on my hips.
I sink onto the armchair across from him and tuck my legs beneath me, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of exposed skin.
“I was thinking,” he starts, voice low. “If you wanted help taking some stuff down to the church to donate, I’d be happy to do it.”
“Oh,” I say softly, caught off guard. That was the last thing I expected. “Really? You’d do that?”
He nods, leaning forward just enough that the lamplight shifts across his shoulders. “I know it’s hard to let go of things. It’s not easy. But there’s no reason to hang onto it all forever. I know they’d want you to move forward, not stay stuck holding everything they left behind.”
I drop my gaze to the floor. He’s right.
I’ve boxed up most of their things—the bedroom, the office—but when I tried to load them into my car, I broke down sobbing in the driveway.
Every item in this house carries their fingerprints, their laughter, their life.
Letting it go feels like erasing them, piece by piece.
“You can think about it,” he adds gently. “Just know I’m here if you need the help.”
I glance up again, meeting his steady eyes. “That would actually be really helpful,” I admit.
He gives me a small, crooked grin and leans back, relaxing into the cushions.
I shift in the armchair and catch the way his gaze follows the movement.
It drifts over my thighs, lingers at my chest, traces the line of my collarbone.
By the time his eyes reach mine again I’m full-on smiling, then laughing under my breath at how shamelessly he looks at me.
He licks his lips, holding my stare without apology, then tips his head back slightly so he’s watching me from beneath lowered lids.
“You shouldn’t look at people like that,” I say breathless.
“Like what?”
I scoff softly. “Like you want me.”
“But I do,” he says simply. Heat floods my cheeks, then sinks lower, pooling warm and insistent in my belly. I can’t find words—my mind short-circuits under the weight of his gaze.
“Hmm,” is all I manage, a small, helpless sound that says nothing and everything at once.
I glance toward the TV when Tobias nods at it. “You wanna watch something?” he asks, voice casual, like we’re just two people winding down after a long night instead of sitting here half-dressed and buzzing with adrenaline.
I turn my head to look at the dark screen, but my mind is already spinning in a different direction.
Do I want to watch something? I’m not even sure why I invited him inside in the first place.
His place isn’t far. He could have driven home through the rain without a second thought. Yet here he is, and here I am.
“If you want to,” I say, keeping my tone light.
He stands without another word and crosses the room in a few easy strides. I let myself watch him—every shift of muscle in his arms and back, the way his shoulders roll. My body locks up when he picks up the remote and walks straight back to me.
He reaches down, takes my hand from my lap, and tugs me gently to my feet.
Before I can process it, he spins me once—light, playful—then guides me backward until the backs of my knees hit the couch.
I drop onto the cushions, and he lands beside me, close enough that the heat of his body seeps into my side.
I arch a brow at him, already turned on by how smoothly he maneuvered us, how naturally his warmth presses against me.
The TV lights up the room. I nod toward the screen as he flips through the apps. “The red one right there—that’s Netflix. That’s what my generation watches these days.”
He laughs, the sound low and rich in his chest, vibrating through me where we touch. A wide smile breaks across my face as he clicks it and scrolls through titles, but none of them register.
After a minute he taps the remote against his leg and lets out a quiet huff. I glance up. His jaw is clenched, eyes narrowed in determination. He turns his head, and his gaze locks onto mine.
“What?” I whisper. His eyes trace over my face—slow, searching—then he gives a small shake of his head.
“I can’t focus with you sitting next to me,” he says. His gaze drops to my mouth.
“You’re the one who wanted to watch something,” I murmur, but the words dissolve into the heat pooling low.
He drops the remote onto the cushion beside him and shifts.
His hands find my hips and he pulls me across his lap.
I twist instinctively, swinging my leg over so I’m straddling him.
The hard length of him presses up against me and my lips part on a soft, involuntary sound.
I settle my weight, feeling every inch of him beneath me, and loop my arms around his neck.
He tilts his head back to look up at me, then flexes his hips up. His fingers dig into my hips, holding me exactly where he wants me, before sliding down my thighs. I glance down between us—his arousal straining against the cotton, bigger and more insistent than I’d let myself imagine.
His hands travel back up, slower this time, thumbs brushing inward until they hover just inches from where I’m already aching for him. I want him. No—I need him. And from the way his breathing has turned ragged, he knows it.
But then he stops. His hands still, and the serious look returns to his face—hesitation flickering behind the want. My body tenses, caught between the edge of desire and the sudden uncertainty.
He’s waiting. Giving me the reins.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice deep and gravelly, the words rolling over my skin.
The question makes me falter. Makes me question what he wants. He’s letting me decide, but I know if he lets me think about it, logic will win. It always does.
“We probably shouldn’t,” I say, even as every part of me screams the opposite.
His hands retreat, sliding back to rest lightly on my hips instead of pushing forward.
Disappointment settles, even though I’m the one who made the call.
Maybe I wanted him to want me enough to argue, to convince me this doesn’t have to be complicated, that it could be worth the risk.
But he doesn’t push. He just watches me, steady and patient.
I lean back, breaking the contact, and slide off his lap. My feet find the floor between his spread legs, and I stand there, heart hammering, trying to steady the ache he’s left behind.
I look him up and down, still caught between the heat pulsing through me and the sudden, sharp clarity of my own hesitation.
My mind is a tangle of want and caution, and I’m not sure which will win.
Then the washing machine buzzes, the cycle ending with a cheerful chime that feels comically well-timed.
“I’ll be right back,” I blurt, already turning on my heel.
I hurry down the hall to the laundry room and immediately lean forward against the machine, forehead resting on my folded arms.
“What the hell am I doing?” I whisper to the empty room, the words barely audible over the low hum of the house settling around me.
I groan softly, nerves still crackling like live wires under my skin.
If I walk back out there now, I’ll have to decide—say something, do something, cross a line I’m not sure I’m ready to uncross.
I thud my forehead lightly against my arms again, trying to force some order into the chaos in my head.
A floorboard creaks behind me.