CHAPTER 32
Cole
God, I hope I don’t fuck this up.
My nerves for our date tonight have kicked into overdrive, and I’m vaguely aware that I’m pacing around the spare bedroom in tight loops, the floorboards groaning softly beneath each step.
My watch face glares up at me with the same stubborn time it showed thirty seconds ago.
I’m anxious to see her expression when she realises what I’ve planned, but my adrenaline is spiking so high I’m already bracing for the crash.
I took a risky gamble, finally working up the courage to officially ask her, but it paid off and I started planning the perfect date ever since.
My palms are sweating, and I’ve changed my shirt three times trying to figure out if she’ll think I’ve tried too hard or not hard enough.
The last navy-blue button-up is still crumpled at the foot of the bed—ditched for making me seem too stiff.
The one before that? Too casual. I almost went back to it before realising I’d wrinkled it to hell.
I peek through the bedroom window, watching the dying sun cast golden rays over the backyard.
I recheck my watch. Too early—and run my hands down the front of my shirt, then across my jaw, debating if I have time to shave again, not that there’s anything left to fix.
I grab my lighter from the desk, flick it once, twice, then shove it in my pocket for later.
I cross the room and plant myself in front of the wardrobe mirror, my black boots creaking against the wood floor as I go. Adjusting the cuff of my sleeve, I give myself a once-over, then a second, then a third. Triple-checking, like it’ll somehow smooth out the nerves riding just beneath my skin.
My denim jacket sits open across my shoulders, its worn edges brushing against my white cotton shirt underneath. I’d rolled the sleeves just high enough to toe the line between relaxed and pulled together.
My hair, as always, has its own ideas. Grabbing a cap, I hold it for a second, then toss it onto the bed with a quiet sigh and rake my fingers through the mess instead, trying to tame the chaos in my head more than the strands themselves.
I’ve built a hundred things in my life, but I’ve never been this nervous to light a few candles and set a playlist. If I thought I was anxious during that game of truth or dare, or that first morning I moved in, this is worse. Way worse.
Because this isn’t just any date. It’s Quinn.
She’s not some girl I matched with on a whim.
She’s not someone I’ll forget by the weekend.
I know I’ve got one shot to show her what she deserves; I’m not wasting it on some fancy dinner that’ll make her feel awkward and unsure of herself.
I know her now. She’d appreciate something low-key.
Not too intimate. Just enough to let her know I care.
Tonight isn’t about impressing her. It’s about getting it right. Giving her a night she’ll remember. She said keep it friendly with that guarded look in her eye, like she was bracing for me to make it weird.
And so, I promised I’d keep it low-key. I don’t want to freak her out with some grand declaration of affection, not when I still see her flinch when Josh or anything that reminds her of him comes up, as if it’s a bruise that hasn’t healed.
She plays it off, cracks a joke, moves on like it didn’t get to her.
But I see it. The stiff shoulders. The way she suddenly needs to tidy something or look away, worry at her fingers.
And what a fucking asshole he is. To have someone like Quinn and screw it up so badly she can’t even sleep in her bedroom in peace. When I see her curled up awkwardly on the three-seater couch, her legs tangled in the throw blanket, something in me aches.
She looks small there. Tired. Like she hasn’t let herself rest properly in months.
I’ll walk past her on my way to make a coffee, and there she’ll be—half folded into that too-small couch, one arm wedged under her cheek like a makeshift pillow. I have to stop myself every time from scooping her up and carrying her to bed. I’d do anything to wake up next to her again.
Hell, I’d sleep on the damn couch every night if it meant she felt safe enough to stretch out in my bed again. I’d hold her there, letting my eyes trace the soft dusting of freckles across her nose, the curve of her cheek, her lashes resting against her rosy cheeks.
Still, this isn’t just dinner. It’s a step. A small one, maybe. But her choosing to trust me with even this? It means everything.
I want to prove I can be different, that she’s safe with me. I see her not just on the surface, but in the way she makes this half-renovated house feel like home. I see it all, and I still want more.
I take one last glance in the mirror, exhale through the jitters, and step toward the doorway.
Now all that’s left is trying not to look at her like I already know I’m fucked.