Page 79 of Dirty Fighter

His hand smooths over my hair, bunching it at the base of my neck and then slipping down the rest. “We just let things… happen.”

I nod. “See how it goes.”

He bows his head to meet my eyes as his darken. “Take it slow.”

“Good idea,” I halfheartedly agree because of course it makes sense and that’s what you do. But then my focus is drifting to his mouth, and I can feel that thing between us… only this time, it’s not just the air crackling with the charge of attraction, it’s a stronger, more powerful pull I feel deep beneath my ribs.

“Yeah, good idea,” he agrees gruffly, his arms wrapping tighter around me, pulling me in and up against him.

Closer.

I go to my toes, my arms falling around his neck, the fingers of my right hand threading through his hair.

Closer.

Our brows touch, his mouth brushing like a breath across mine.

I’m trembling.

“Okay, we’ll take it slow,” he says again. Pauses, his hands bunching in my shirt, and then, “Unless⁠—”

Ping.

We freeze.

Zzzz. Zzzz.

Ping. Ping… Ping.

Jason blinks first, a furrow etching between his brows as the rest of the world rides in like a tidal wave of cellular intrusion, shattering this little bubble of isolated perfection.

My phone is plugged in on the breakfast bar beside us, notifications flashing across the screen like lightning. The vibration of the device against the counter is like rolling thunder and my mother’s signature alert is the crash that shakes the very foundation of where we stand.

The storm is here, and suddenly, desperately, I want to keep hiding away with Jason.

I don’t want to let the rest of the world in. I don’t want to let her in. Or the looming reality of what Jason and I have been willfully ignoring for days.

We slip apart, and Jason hands me my phone. “Service is back.”

He doesn’t appear any happier about it than I am.

“Just needed power, I guess,” I say, disheartened.

The look on his face conveys everything I’m feeling.

We weren’t ready for this.

It’s too soon.

I stare at the device in my palm, still plugged in to the outlet. The screen violently populating with notifications I don’t want to see, don’t care about.

“Mine must be in our room.”

I nod, wondering if Jason would go along if I suggested we just leave them off. For a few more hours or days. But then one of the notifications rolling past catches my eye.

Mom

You’re welcome.