“But you do.” I finally lay my cards down. “You mean a lot. So much it scares me.” Some of the anger finally retreats from his face. “I don’t want you to leave tomorrow.”

There’s a glimmer of affability. “That’s nice to hear. But…”

“You have to leave anyway,” I finish.

“Yeah. I do.”

“I want to believe you,” I inform him. “That you want this. That this can work.” Suddenly, it seems important he knows that.

“So believe me,” Beck says simply.

“I—It’s not that—” I start, but Beck doesn’t let me finish.

“You don’t walk on the field knowing you’re going to win, Saylor. You earn it. Fight for it. That’s all I’m asking. For you to try.” I open my mouth to speak, but he keeps talking, so I close it. “I know it’s a lot. I know people care where I go, who I sleep with. And I get that it would complicate your life, and I wish it wouldn’t. But…” He pauses, and I watch him teeter on the precipice. “I care what you think. I think about you the way other people think about me.”

It’s such a ridiculous metaphor I’m tempted to laugh, but I can’t. The words are too raw.

Too echt.

Too real.

Worming their way inside of me and gnawing away at my doubts and insecurities.

“Then why wouldn’t you…” My voice trails off when Beck rounds the edge of the island, caging me against the butcher-block countertop right next to the boiling kettle I should probably turn off.

“It seemed like sex might mean something different to me,” he tells me. “Might mean more.”

Emboldened by his honesty, I offer up a little of my own. “It wouldn’t,” I admit.

Beck’s face stays blank, but there’s a tic in his jaw that suggests it might take some effort to appear that way. “Earlier, what you said about being friendl—”

I know where he’s going with this. “I kept thinking about you,” I whisper.

He kisses me, shoving me against the counter and then lifting me atop it. I yank his shirt off, anxious to feast on the abs I was stroking earlier. We’re racing along faster than any speed limit would allow.

I rake my fingers through his soft hair.

Trail my fingers down his neck.

Dig my nails into his shoulders.

Bite on his bottom lip, spurring his own perusal along…

“Holy shit!”

Beck pulls away just enough so I can see Cressida standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wide-eyed and blushing. Wearing a matching pajama set patterned with penguins.

“Uh, hey,” I say. “What are you doing down here?”