Page 56 of Twins for Three Bad Boys

Millie follows my gaze and hums approvingly. “Oh yeah. That one.”

“Millie,” I hiss. “This is wild. I haven’t been in town long enough for⁠—”

She waves a hand. “For what? Having fun?”

“That’s not⁠—”

“And,” she continues, undeterred, “Fletcher is a good guy. Like, genuinely good. Quiet good. Builds things with his hands. Emotionally repressed in a kinda hot way.”

My face is on fire. “He is?”

“Yup,” she says serenely. “If you ask me, you’ve spent so long being careful you forgot you’re allowed to have fun. You’re allowed to say yes to something that feels good, you know.”

I swallow hard.

Fun feels dangerous. Fun is the thing that always comes right before consequences. But when I think about Fletcher’s hand at my waist, asking instead of taking, my chest does that soft, aching thing again.

“I don’t want it to be a mistake,” I admit quietly.

Millie’s expression gentles. “I don’t think it will be. But even if it is… you’re allowed to make a choice just because you want to.” She squeezes my arm once. “Go.”

I hesitate for exactly one more heartbeat.

Then I go.

Fletcher’s eyes sharpen the second I step back toward him, as though he felt the decision before I made it. He doesn’t smile, not fully, but something shifts in his posture. Attention locking in.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply. And then, because I’m done minimizing myself tonight, I add boldly, “I was wondering if you wanted to… leave.”

His brows lift, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I do.”

The walk to his place is quiet but in the way that’s charged instead of awkward. The night air is cool, the ground damp beneath our steps. Our shoulders brush occasionally, not accidentally, but not quite on purpose either.

Every time we touch, my body lights up like it’s been waiting for permission.

At his door, Fletcher pauses, keys in hand. He turns to face me fully, the porch light cutting sharp planes across his face, softening nothing.

“June,” he says, and my name sounds different in his mouth. “We don’t have to⁠—”

“I know,” I say quickly. “I want to.”

His gaze searches my face, checking for cracks, for hesitation I might not say out loud. When he seems satisfied, he nods once and opens the door.

Inside, it’s exactly what I expect and somehow more. Clean but lived in. Tools organized with intense care over a long tool bench right in his living room. A faint smell of metal and pine.

Fletcher sets his keys down and turns back to me.

The silence stretches.

I’m suddenly hyper-aware of myself. Of my breathing and the way I’m burning under this sweater. Of the fact that I’ve never done casual very well. I’m either all in or braced for impact.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer. “You still good?”

I nod. “Yeah.”