But when I found the words, my breath caught in my throat.

I

wish

I swallowed, a little breathless now.

I

could

I sat up straight, clutching the book in my hands, my mind racing with questions. You wish you could what?

What was he trying to say?

I read as fast as I could, searching for more underlined words. But there weren’t any. No more clues. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. I stared at the book, my heart beating a little too fast. What are you trying to tell me, Blake?

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t hear the soft click at first. It was a sound I knew all too well—Mom’s Polaroid camera. My gaze flicked up, though I didn’t need to lift my eyes fully to know who had taken the shot.

His presence was as familiar to me as my own breath.

Blake watched the picture in his hand as it slowly developed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

I could feel the heat of the moment sink into my skin.

“Enjoying the book?” he asked, leaning casually against the doorframe, one hand buried in the pocket of his hoodie.

“Enjoying?” I held up the book, narrowing my eyes. “I’m about two seconds away from throwing this across the room because you’ve left me on the worst cliffhanger.”

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Guess you’ll have to wait for the next book.”

I gaped at him. “You can’t be serious.” He shrugged, and I scoffed, throwing myself back onto my pillows. “You’re evil.”

Another small shrug. “You keep reading, though.”

I scowled at him because he was right.

And he knew it.

“Blake…” I started, unsure whether I was irritated or intrigued. I couldn’t decide if I was annoyed or flattered or maybe a little nervous? I was caught somewhere between all those things.

He was too calm, too knowing, like this was all part of his grand plan. A grand plan I had no choice but to follow.

Blake looked far too pleased with himself. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’m just getting started.”

And he was.

Because a week later, another book appeared on my bed.

Each one filled with carefully chosen words, secret messages that felt like little pieces of him scattered across the pages.

I don’t know when it stopped being just about the messages and started being about the books themselves. But Blake knew me. He knew I wasn’t a cheater. He knew I wouldn’t skim through just to find his words—I’d actually read them. I read every page, every chapter, even when the messages were slow to come.

I wish I could tell you things

That had been the full message.

It made me giddy.