“Yeah, you do,” she says with the slightest hint of a smile that she immediately bites her lip to suppress. “But your libido is not a reason for me to stay.”

“It’s more than my libido,” I protest, even though I know I haven’t shown that. Even though we haven’t been more than that. But I want to be; I understand at least that much since my mom called me out, since I stayed up half that night thinking about it, since my immediate reaction to finding out Jack had been hurt was to run out of school and right to her doorstep. “I’m not in your house right now because I thought I’d get a hookup out of it.”

“Yeah, I’m not really clear why you’re in my house,” she says flatly.

And it’s officially time to let it out. “Because I care about you, okay? I like you, even though you’re prickly as hell and looking at me like you wish I would vaporize and you think ketchup is a vegetable.”

She snorts, but at least it sounds like there’s a little genuine laughter in it. Progress. “It’s not enough, Cheer Girl. We barely even know each other.”

“But you like me, I bet.”

She crosses those glorious arms, which have deeply bronzed from all that practice on the field. “I like making out with you, sure.”

“And that’s it? That’s the only thing?” Please don’t let it be the only thing.

“Well, no.” She strokes her chin thoughtfully. “I also like your legs.”

“Okay, fuck you, quarterback.” I turn to go, but I don’t get more than a step toward the door before a hand on my wrist pulls me back and then her mouth is on mine.

“You make me laugh occasionally,” she says, a whisper against my lips. “And I know you probably had to take some shit about getting me for Midnight Breakfast. I appreciate it.”

“And?” I’m pushing my luck, but my heart is pounding and I need to buy a few seconds to catch my breath.

“And I like how hard you push—both yourself and other people. Even me, occasionally. And that you don’t even blink before scaling the wall of an apartment building. And maybe we don’t know each other so well yet, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if we changed that.”

The pounding is easing up, trading itself for some intense fluttering in my stomach. This is where I would ask her on an actual date, but.

Miguel.

The squad.

The team.

“But we have to do that in secret, I’m guessing,” she fills in, and I realize my face must not be holding anything back. “Is that because of Miguel, or because of everyone else?”