Page 69 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CONNOR

Footsteps pad across the kitchen floor, soft against the tile, pulling me out of the fog of notes I’ve been staring at for long enough that the words have started bleeding into one another.

The end of my pen is caught between my teeth, rolling absently as I chew at the plastic, and I glance up.

Theo stands at the counter with his back to me, one hand braced against it while the other stirs something into a mug.

My teeth stop against the pen as I stare at the broad stretch of his back, ink curling over his shoulder and down to his waist, and the memory of my fingers digging into that same skin comes far too easily.

I pull the pen from between my teeth and close my textbook, stuffing both into my bag before I can make the mistake of looking at him again.

I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for the last five minutes anyway. There’s no point sitting here pretending any of it is going in when I could study literally anywhere else.

Somewhere quieter, with fewer distractions.

I freeze with my fingers around the zip. Distractions. Jesus Christ.

He’s making coffee.

That’s it. He’s standing in a kitchen making coffee, and I’m apparently incapable of acting normal because he’s decided to do it without a shirt on.

I push my chair back and barely make it halfway up before Theo’s hand closes around my shoulder and puts me straight back in the chair.

My head snaps up. I expect green eyes and that irritating smirk, something familiar enough that I can snap at him and get this whole thing back onto ground I actually understand.

But Theo isn’t looking at me.

“I’m leaving,” he says stiffly, eyes finally finding mine. “Stay.”

My lips part, but before I can come up with anything, Theo’s hand slips from my shoulder.

He pushes it through his sleep-mussed hair instead, shoving the dark strands away from his face, his jaw clenching as he steps around me.

“Theo-”

I don’t even know what I was going to say, and apparently it doesn’t matter because he keeps walking without so much as glancing back at me.

No stupid comment thrown over his shoulder. No princess. None of the usual bullshit he uses to make sure he gets the last word.

He just leaves.

I stare at the spot he left, an uncomfortable ache beneath my ribs.

His mug is still sitting where he left it, steam still curling faintly from the top.

I’m leaving.

Stay.

Not can you stay. Not wait for Marcus. Just one quiet word before he walked out.

I press my lips together, staring at the abandoned mug.

He wanted me to stay.

He just didn’t want to stay with me.