Page 136 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I go still. “Don’t what?”

“Make the face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you decide something for my own good.”

I breathe out once. “Rule Four.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m not deciding.”

“No?”

“No.”

Her eyes search mine.

There is a lot I could say. Too much. That she looks tired. That I hate this room for making her ache and love it for showing me pieces of her I don’t deserve. That I’ve been thinking about kissing her since before I admitted to thinking about anything.

That wanting her is starting to feel less like a bad idea and more like a fact I’m losing the strength to argue with.

Instead, I say, “If this happens, you tell me to stop, and I stop.”

Her breath catches.

Small.

Real.

My hands stay at my sides.

I do not touch her.

Daisy looks down, then back up. Her mouth curves, but it's nervous, almost frightened by its own honesty.

“This being the part where we continue arguing about rug custody?” she asks.

“No.”

“Oh.”

The rain keeps tapping the window. Puck exhales from the rug. Somewhere downstairs, a door closes, then the house settles again, old wood and old memories making room for a new mistake.

Daisy steps closer.

Not much.

Enough.

“I’m not telling you to stop,” she says.

My control goes quiet.

I lift one hand slowly, giving her time to move away. She doesn’t. My fingers touch her jaw first, careful as a question. Her skin is warm. Softer than I let myself imagine, which is stupid because I have imagined it. I have imagined more than this, worse than this, in ways I have no business admitting while a fake relationship sits between us like a rulebook written by cowards.

Daisy’s lashes lower.