CHAPTER 47
Quinn
It’s finally time to tackle the last room in the house, and of course, it’s the one I’ve been avoiding since day one.
I exhale slowly, hand hovering on the knob, and push open the door to the study.
Josh’s crap still crowds every corner. Half-packed boxes of clothes, dusty action figures—sorry, collectables, and a DVD collection spill out everywhere.
He never even bothered to unpack in the six months we lived here.
I mean, why would he? Where would he have found the time between fucking me up emotionally and sneaking around with Brittany?
“Just drop my stuff at Tyler’s place.”
Sure, Josh. Whatever you say. Maybe I’ll drop it on the curb, on collection day, let the garbage men deal with it. The thought makes me smirk, a spark of satisfaction warming my chest as I picture his precious junk hauled off like the trash it always was.
I shut the box a little harder than necessary, dust puffing into the air, and for the first time it feels like the weight of his things belongs to the past, not me. The house is nearly ready for auction, and the thought fills me with a cocktail of nerves and relief.
Soon, I’ll finally be free of Josh. But it also means Cole will be gone too, off on his year-long trip around the world, and our little arrangement will end.
It’s been too easy to slip into our daily routine of breakfast and renovations and pretend, just for a moment, that I could have that with him forever. He’s not even gone yet and it terrifies me how much I already miss him.
How did we go from roommates to… this? Every night for the past two weeks, his fingers have found me, my body unravelling, coming apart under his touch, grinding against him like I can’t get enough, like a starving teenager desperate for a fix.
It’s like the tension of the day snaps the moment we climb into bed. We don’t cross the line into sex, but the way we almost do is its own kind of undoing.
I can’t stop thinking about it. About him. And I can’t let myself imagine what it would mean to follow him overseas. He hasn’t asked outright, but the question clings to the air between us. I know he wants more. God help me, so do I. But if I say it aloud, it becomes real. And real is terrifying.
So I keep pretending. Pretending time isn’t running out, pretending this won’t hurt.
“Quinn?”
“Hmmm,” I answer absently, still staring at one of Josh’s shitty DVDs in my hand, too wrapped up in thoughts of Cole and those hands. The heat between us has been simmering for weeks, and it’s easier, safer, to focus on that than the ghosts still cluttering this room.
“I was just asking if you needed any water?” he calls, his voice carrying into the study.
The words barely register until movement at the doorway pulls me back. The only water I need is a long, cold shower, I think as I finally look up and see him.
Cole walks in from the kitchen, broad shoulders filling the doorway. He holds out the bottle of water, shirt clinging to his chest, jaw dusted with stubble, that steady green gaze locking onto me as he passes it over. Even covered in sweat and paint, he looks unfairly good.
I force my eyes up to meet his, trying not to linger on how his forearms flex as he shifts the bottle. My pulse betrays me anyway, quickening, heat rushing to my cheeks.
“Um, yeah, thanks,” I say as I take a sip too fast, hoping the cool water will hide the fact that I can’t stop staring. The corner of his mouth tugs upward, like he’s caught me in the act.
“How’s it feel, clearing this stuff out?” he asks, voice gentler now.
I hold my breath, waiting for that shadow to settle back over me, but it doesn’t.
Not really. Because Cole is here, solid, warm, looking at me like I’m more than the mess Josh left behind.
My throat tightens, a lump rising before I can swallow it back, but I force a shrug as if it doesn’t matter.
“Like hauling out someone else’s mess, I guess. ”
Cole leans against the doorframe, watching me. “Or like finally shutting the door on him for good?”
I laugh softly, trying to shake it off, but the sound wavers. “Not him. I don’t miss him. I miss who I was before he got in my head. Clearing this out… it’s like shutting the door on that version of me too.”
Cole’s eyes soften. “So maybe it’s not just about tossing his stuff. Maybe it’s about finding you again.”
I glance up sharply, throat tight, but his expression is steady, earnest. “That version of you?” he adds. “She’s still in there. You’ve just been carrying his junk around too long.”
I shake my head. “You’re ridiculous. And you sound like Sophie.”
“Guess she’s rubbing off on me,” he teases, flashing a grin. “But I’m not wrong.”
We work side by side, passing boxes and navigating around each other, until I can no longer take the tension in the room.
He must feel the same because he steps closer to take a box from me but pauses, his forest-green eyes dropping to my mouth, and the charge between us arcs through me, skin prickling, nipples tightening, until I’m sure he must notice.
Friends don’t look at each other like this. In fact, no one has ever looked at me like this, like I’m worth wanting, worth keeping. Cole’s gaze doesn’t strip me down, it builds me back up, and it terrifies me how much I crave that feeling.
The silence stretches, humming between us. I shift on my feet, hands twitching at my sides, caught between pulling back and leaning in. Before I can stop myself, I sway a fraction closer, as if my body has made the choice my mind is too afraid to.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess, he goes for it, crushing his lips to mine.
Shock jolts through me, and when my hands fly out, I find myself curling them into his shirt. The world collapses down to the press of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble, the taste of mint, sweat, and something else wholly him.
He grips my hips hard, anchoring me, and presses me back against the wall until it digs into my spine.
“Cole,” I breathe, my fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt. “We’re not supposed to…”
“Mmm,” he hums, mouth moving over mine, not letting go. His hand slides up my side, slipping beneath my shirt, thumbing the underside of my breast. “This isn’t part of the arrangement.”
“Fuck the arrangement,” I gasp against his lips, exhilaration burning through me.