Page 33 of Make Me Mean It

The scrape. The bang. Theo swearing under his breath.

Anything except the cold drag of my shirt every time I breathe.

The locker slams shut and I flinch, my attention snapping back to Theo as he turns towards me with a bundle of clothes tucked beneath one arm.

“Maybe make it actually believable.”

“I’m fine,” I grit out, holding his gaze because looking away will only prove his point.

Theo scoffs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

His eyes skim over me, and I brace for that slow, obnoxiously obvious look he keeps giving me.

But there’s no smirk when his attention catches on my hands buried in my pockets, no teasing when it moves to the shirt still plastered against my stomach. By the time his eyes lift back to mine, I almost wish he’d looked at me the other way.

I know what to do with that.

Theo’s eyes stay on me, and my nails bite into my palms, heat burning its way up my neck.

I open my mouth, desperate to say something that will put the usual irritation back between us, but I don’t even manage the first word.

“Save it.”

A bundle of clothes flies at me, and I barely get my hands free in time to catch it against my chest.

Soft fabric bunches beneath my fingers, dry enough that the first brush of it against my damp shirt makes my grip tighten. Then the smell reaches me, clean detergent mixed with whatever cologne Theo wears, warm and familiar enough that I know exactly who the clothes belong to before I look down.

T-shirt. Joggers.

His.

When I look back up, Theo has already turned away, dropping heavily onto the bench and leaning forward with his forearms braced against his thighs, his attention fixed somewhere on the floor between his feet.

“Go shower.”

My fingers twitch around the clothes. “I’m not showering here. The coffee’s practically dry already.”

I straighten as I say it, only for the damp fabric to drag across my stomach and send my arms shifting instinctively away from my sides.

Theo’s eyes lift, dropping briefly to the space I’ve put between the shirt and the rest of me before meeting mine again.

“No, it’s not.”

Theo hums and leans back against the lockers, settling further onto the bench. His legs stretch out in front of him, completely relaxed, while I’m standing here feeling increasingly ridiculous.

“You trying to convince yourself or me, princess?”

My jaw tightens.

“‘Cause you’re trying real hard not to touch your own shirt.” His eyes drop pointedly towards it. “Doesn’t exactly scream fine.”

My breath catches, fingers shifting against the clothes in my arms, and a crease catches beneath my thumb.

I’ve crushed half the t-shirt in my fist.

flatten my palm over it, smoothing the fabric once and then again, but there are too many folds now, too many places where it isn’t sitting right, and the coffee is still cold, and Theo is still looking at me.

I take a step backwards.