But knowing it and living it are two totally fucking different things. It’s borderline painful resisting him right now, but I have no other choice but to follow his lead here. Even when every instinct of mine is screaming at me to just reach out, grab him, and kiss the shit out of that perfect, pursed mouth.

“Sure,” I tell him, waiting for him to meet my gaze.

Except he doesn’t.

What’s going through your head, man?

I guess I should find some comfort in the fact he’s not drunk or high, or acting outright hostile toward me. But I’m secure enough with my own insecurities to acknowledge that I need some kind of reassurance. Something. Anything, really, to give me some clue as to where I stand with him.

“Ask me tomorrow.”

Well, it’s now tomorrow, and I’ve never been known to be a patient guy.

I’d like to say I haven’t gotten my hopes up, but that would be a big fucking lie. Sure, there’s a good dose of straight-up pessimism mixed in with my hope that has been popping its ugly little head up with each hour that’s gone by waiting to hear from him today. But for the most part, I’ve been hanging on to the idea that what happened yesterday wasn’t just a one-time thing.

Even if that’s all he can give me right now.

I hear his voice in my head, telling me I deserve better, but I quickly shove it away. I don’t care what he thinks I deserve or don’t deserve. And maybe it’s not fucking healthy putting all my eggs in this one very fragile, unpredictable basket, but I’ve never been known to be smart when it comes to this boy. So what else is new?

A bottle of lager appears in front of me before he turns away to grab something out of the fridge.

I watch with bated breath as he grabs a beer for himself—some local IPA I’ve seen a lot of people drinking in my time here. He pops the cap off with the bottle opener and pulls out a stool, dragging it over to sit across from me.

His throat works with his swallow, and if I wasn’t so goddamn on edge, I’d probably be popping a woody right about now.

He frowns when he catches whatever look is on my face, setting the beer down, and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “What?”

I take a swig of my own beer, welcoming the rush of cold liquid down my parched throat. I fiddle with the label as I say, “You okay?”

His brow creases and then comprehension seems to wash over him as he straightens. He white-knuckles his beer. “I’m fine. I’m just having a beer. Same as last week when you stopped by.”