Page 106 of That Rush

“When you ask me to come to something,” I say, “you make it sound as though saying no means I’m rejecting you.”

Aiden goes quiet. Inside the bookstore, an employee drags a chair away from the signing table, the scrape faint through the glass.

He lets out a slow breath. “That’s fair. I’ve done that.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“But you also decide what every invitation means before I finish making it.”

“I need time to decide what I’m comfortable with.”

“I’m not asking you to decide tonight.”

“But the timing made it feel transactional.”

“And you decided that made the help transactional.” He steps back. “It wasn’t.”

“I believe you.”

“I’m not sure you do.”

His truck sits beside mine beneath the storefront lights. Usually, this is where he reaches for me. One hand on my waist. A kiss that starts warm and ends with me wondering how quickly we can reach the cabin.

Tonight, he takes out his keys.

He pockets his keys, a final, quiet gesture. “I’m going home.”

I want to ask him to follow me. The invitation catches behind everything we still haven’t settled.

“Okay.”

He opens his door. “Good night, Paige.”

“Good night.”

He gets into his truck without kissing me. The door shuts, and I notice I’ve been watching his hands instead of his face.

I load the storage bin and lower my hatch.

Anger is still humming under my skin as I pull away, but it’s the space where his kiss should have been that aches.

The book waiting on my nightstand has a shirtless duke, a fake engagement, and enough unresolved sexual tension to hold my attention under almost any circumstances.

Tonight, I read the same paragraph four times.

I close it and stare at the cabin I have defended so fiercely.

My life is quiet because I chose it. Every part of this room is mine: the books stacked beneath the window, the mug beside my chair, the blanket I bought because no one else’s opinion mattered. I love knowing Friday can belong to me without an explanation.

Aiden understands that. He has learned when to come closer and when to let me keep reading. He brings dinner without assuming he will stay, listens when I talk about work, and accepts that a hammock built for one does not magically become larger because he has broad shoulders.

He has entered my life without asking me to rearrange it.

I keep treating that as proof he should be satisfied staying here.

The realization is irritating enough that I get up and carry my mug to the sink. I rinse it, wipe the counter, and straighten a dish towel that is already straight.

I have always valued being able to choose for myself. Lately, I have been using that freedom to avoid anything that scares me.