I miss him. Ever since that night in the kitchen where I stole a sip of beer from him, it feels like something permanently shifted between us. Like he finally noticed me again. It makes me feel weak and pathetic; the girl sitting around waiting instead of pursuing life.

But Holden doesn’t make me feel weak or pathetic. I walked in here stressed and uncertain. And now, just from looking at him, there’s a lightness in my chest that wasn’t there before. A bubbly giddiness. Happiness.

Should you chase happiness if it’s attached to a guy who broke your heart once before?

Holden takes the textbook from me and walks over to the bleachers, tossing it into a pile of his stuff.

I should go. Instead, I drop my own backpack and grab one of the abandoned basketballs, dribbling it a few times before shooting. It bounces off the rim and to the side.

“Lower your elbow.”

I send Holden a glare. “I didn’t ask for pointers.”

He flashes me a smile. The smirk that makes me feel like I’m floating and flying and falling. The expression I’d do anything for.

Then he walks over, not stopping until he’s standing right behind me. He smells good. Not like cinnamon today, but something masculine and musky. The heat of his body radiates, warming my back and flushing my cheeks.

His hands land on my hips, shifting me slightly so I’m facing the hoop head on. I pull in a deep breath, unable to think about anything but the last time he held my hips—while he was moving inside of me.

Goosebumps spread across my skin as his hands move upward, skating across my sides until he reaches and adjusts my elbows. My breathing is erratic now, frantic huffs and puffs as I try to focus on the basket I’m supposed to be making.

I sway back against him as Holden releases my arms and tugs at the bottom of my ponytail. He chuckles as our bodies brush, his own breathing deep and even. Unaffected.

But I don’t think he is.

There have been enough moments between us where there’s something more, when he’s let his guard down a little. He’d do it when we were kids, but the secrets he’d share were breaking the garage window while playing basketball. Admitting to missing his dad. Staying up later than he was supposed to, watching television. Nothing like his hopes and fears now.

“You’re supposed to shoot.”

Instead of replying or taking the shot, I turn around and drop the ball. It bounces and rolls away, but neither of us look down or make any attempt to retrieve it. Holden stares at me, and I stare at him.