He shifts in his seat. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it. But I’m here for Sarah.”

I let out a laugh—sharp and dry.

“What?”

“Of course it’s for her.” I take another sip.

He nods, unsurprised. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re here too.”

“Obviously.” I shrug simply. “It’s always been her,” I admit. The words leave a bad taste in my mouth.

He studies my face before looking down at his drink. “I’m not here to win.”

I raise a brow. “Good. Because I’m not losing to you. Not again.”

Caleb looks up, startled—but then smiles. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

A beat passes.

“Why’d you do it?” I ask. “Prom night.”

He doesn’t ask what I mean. We both are thinking about it so let’s just get it out in the open.

“Just like that, eh?” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Just like that,” I narrow my eyes.

“I thought… if I showed you, maybe you’d finally see she wasn’t right for you.”

“You just had to show me,” I say, shaking my head. “Why?”

“Because I knew Sarah wasn’t the type of girl to be serious. You were just bound to get hurt—”

“No, why did you need to be the one to show me that?” I ask again.

He pauses. “Because... if anyone was going to save you, I wanted it to be me…”

I stare at him. That might be the dumbest heroic fantasy I’ve ever heard. He was always…acting like he wanted to be my caretaker or something. Put me under his wing and protect me. Was this seriously just another one of his ways of trying to be there for me?

Honestly, it sounds like the impulsive dumbass thing he would do. Perfectly on brand for him.

“It’s getting late,” I mutter.

“It’s eight o’clock.”

“Feels later.”

He laughs. “Another drink? Room service? Brooklyn Nine-Nine?”

I shrug. “Sure. But if they don’t have chicken fingers, I’m punching you.”

“Chicken fingers? What are you, five?”

“Say what you want. Chicken fingers with Thai chili sauce slap.”

He grins. “I’ll get calamari.”

“It’s eight o’clock at night. Who just orders calamari?” I laugh as he hands me another drink.

“Don’t knock it until you try it.” He pats his stomach dramatically. I slap it in response.

“Ow!” he yelps, lunging toward me. An embarrassing scream-laugh escapes my lips as his fingers start tickling me mercilessly. Not this.

I try to get away but it’s too late—he’s on a roll, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. This is exactly the shit he used to pull when we used to hangout and it looks like he hasn’t grown out of it.

He lunges with a mischievous grin, fingers flying to my sides like he’s on a mission, and I can’t stop laughing. I want to stop but I can’t. I thrash and twist, trying to escape, but he’s relentless. His fingers dig under my shirt, skating across my ribs, grazing my sensitive skin. It’s too much. It’s all too much. I can feel the goosebumps spread across my body from head to toe. My legs kick out beneath me, and I collapse onto the couch.