I swirled the water in my bottle, taking a slow sip, keeping my head down. Because if I looked up, I’d start scanning the parking lot for Mom’s car. And if I scanned the parking lot for Mom’s car, I’d have to admit I was waiting for Blake to be here.

Which was ridiculous.

Because I knew he was coming.

He always came.

And now, I was just sitting here, picking at a loose thread on my hoodie—the one I’d stolen from Blake’s room months ago and never gave back—my stomach twisting with something that felt too much like anticipation. The McDonald’s breakfast sat heavy in my stomach, and my headache had faded to a dull throb, but last night still clung to me.

Blake’s hands on my waist.

Blake’s voice in my ear.

Blake staring at me like he was trying not to ruin me.

I let out a slow breath, closing my eyes for half a second. That’s when I heard the low hum of a car engine.

I didn’t need to look up. I knew it was him.

A second later, he pulled up in front of me, parking the car with the same precise, controlled movements he did everything else with. He didn’t get out right away. Just sat there for a second, hands gripping the wheel, staring straight ahead like he was debating something.

I watched him, ignoring the way my stomach twisted when I saw what was on his wrist.

My scrunchie.

He’d pushed it higher on his forearm, and something warm curled through my chest before I forced myself to shake it off.

When he finally got out, his jaw was clenched, his buzzed hair still making me irrationally angry, and his green eyes unreadable as he walked toward me.

Blake, always looking like he belonged somewhere else.

I stayed where I was, massaging my foot.

Blake stopped a few feet away, his gaze flicking over me as if scanning for any sign of injury, checking for any bruises. He wasn’t wearing his flannel today, just a plain black T-shirt that stretched over his arms and shoulders in a way I definitely wasn’t paying attention to. He shifted his weight like he was waiting for me to say something first.

But the only thing I could think to say was, I missed you.

So I said nothing at all and slowly lifted my foot, pointing at it with a flat expression.

“Your feet hurt?” he asked.

I shrugged.

He sighed through his nose, and without saying another word, he crouched down in front of me. He grabbed my ankle and tugged my foot onto his knee, his fingers brushing against my skin as he inspected it.

I sucked in a breath.

He traced his thumb over the spot I had been rubbing, pressing lightly. “I told you to get new toe pads.”