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“Night, Nadia.”

“And Quinn?” She points at her phone. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Before I can argue, she's already walking toward the elevator.

The door clicks shut.

For about three seconds, neither of us moves.

Then Wyatt says, "That was—"

"Mortifying," I finish.

"I was going to say well-timed."

I look at him. "How is that well-timed?"

"Because if she'd walked in thirty seconds later—" He stops. Clears his throat. "Never mind."

My face goes hot.

Nothing kills the mood quite like your best friend barging in to interrupt a heated make-out session. Honestly, who knows where that would've ended?

12

WYATT

Hypothetically Speaking

We end up eating the sandwiches anyway, cold and a little sad-looking by now, sitting cross-legged on her floor like two people who've decided the couch is still too big a commitment for whatever this is.

"This is objectively terrible," she says, around a mouthful of cold grilled cheese.

"Listen, I'm not disagreeing with you. But also? I've had worse."

She snorts. "I don't think there's anything worse than cold, melted cheese."

"I've eaten arena food after triple overtime. This barely cracks the top ten."

She laughs. It's carefree and unguarded, and it does something to my chest.

I catch myself watching her instead of eating, struck by how ridiculously satisfying it is to make her laugh.

Pickles isn't even here and I still feel like the luckiest guy in the building.

It's quiet for a minute after that. The good kind. The kind where neither of us is scrambling to fill the space with something clever.

"So..." I start, but trail off immediately, losing my courage. Maybe this isn't the right time.

She literally just came back from a date that left her crying—though, to be fair, we did make out right after. The memory alone sends a sudden, tight pulse through my dick.

Quinn has no idea where my thoughts just went. She narrows her eyes at me. "So what?"

"So... I wanted to ask you something."

She waits.

"What did you want to ask me?" she prompts.