I swallowed the satisfaction curling in my stomach and tilted my head slightly, watching him more closely out of the corner of my eye. “He asked for my number. I gave it to him. I think he’s gonna ask me out.”

Blake flexed his fingers and shifted in his seat.

“You think I should say yes?”

His green eyes cut to me. His jaw ticked once before he looked away. A long pause followed. Then, Blake’s voice like sandpaper, “I don’t even know him. What am I supposed to say, B?”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

I let the silence stretch, let the tension simmer between us, let him sit in it. Then, just as he was about to park in front of the house, I pushed one step further. “He said I had a pretty smile.”

Blake hit the brakes a little too hard.

My stomach flipped. Not from the sudden stop, but from the reaction I’d been waiting for.

I bit back a laugh, watching him fight whatever war was raging in his head. He put the car in park, exhaling slowly like he was forcing himself to stay composed.

“Still not mad?”

“No,” he bit out.

I smiled. And then—just to test him, just to see if I could break past whatever wall he was desperately trying to hold up—I leaned in, voice dropping to something too soft, too sweet. “Would it bother you if I said I liked it?”

His jaw was clenched so tight I thought it might crack.

I tilted my head, watching him with quiet amusement.

“Jesus Christ, Beverly,” he hissed, meeting my gaze again. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

His hands dropped into his lap, his fingers curling into fists, but his voice cracked just slightly when he said, “I did. I told you last night.”

Last night.

I like girls. I always have.

Pick a girl. I’ll take her out tomorrow.

My throat felt tight, my pulse a little too loud in my ears. “No. You didn’t tell me shit.”

“I’m not playing this game with you.”

I swallowed, my fingers curling into the sleeves of my hoodie, nails pressing into my palms.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, without looking at me, Blake reached over and unbuckled my seatbelt. His hand brushed my hip in the process, but it didn’t linger. And then—so softly I almost didn’t feel it—he tugged the end of my hoodie, his fingers barely catching the fabric before letting go.

“Go inside.” His voice was rough, low, but not angry.

Still, it was a dismissal.

I grabbed my bag and opened the door. “Thanks for picking me up, Blake.”

He didn’t react.

Then I remembered.

The phone.