Chapter 124: Reid
We walk through the quiet streets of Northhaven, the three of us moving in easy rhythm—her bare feet slapping softly against the pavement, Jake’s bag over his shoulder, my hands shoved in my pockets because I don’t trust them not to reach for her.
She talks just to fill the space. “How does it feel to be thirty?”
Jake tells her it feels suspiciously like twenty-nine but with more back pain. She laughs, that soft, effortless laugh that seems to cut straight through me.
“Who was born first?” she asks next.
“Jake,” I answer. “Seven minutes.”
She hums thoughtfully, like those seven minutes matter, like she’s already trying to picture what difference it made.
But I’m barely listening—because the sun’s low now, turning everything gold, and she’s walking in that mint-green bikini and my black hoodie, sleeves too long, hood bouncing against her back. It hangs low enough that it hides the curve of her hips, her small frame nearly swallowed up in it. From the corner of my eye, it looks like she’s wearing nothing underneath. That hoodie shouldn’t look like a sin, but on her, it does.
Every once in a while, a car or bike passes too close, and one of us moves her out of the way. A hand at her arm, her waist—quick, instinctive. She always looks up with a little startled “oh,” like she can’t believe anyone would bother. Jake smiles every time she does it; I just grit my teeth.
When we finally reach her house, she unlocks the door and steps inside, her voice lighter now. “Come in,” she says, barefoot, padding toward the kitchen.
The place smells the same as it did that night—the night of the team dinner. The one where Jake’s hands were on her legs, where she fell asleep in my arms.
Judging by the way her shoulders stiffen for half a second, she remembers it too.
We drop our things by the door, and my eyes catch on something scattered across the counter—little glints of color under the low light.
Sea glass. Dozens of pieces.
She catches me staring and smiles sheepishly. “Those are all the ones that didn’t make the cut. Too small, or not the right shade, or not smooth enough. I got picky.”
There must be thirty, maybe more, glittering under the kitchen light like tiny pieces of frozen ocean.
Jake picks one up, rolling it between his fingers. I know why he chose it—the same reason I would’ve. Seafoam green. Pale as her eyes when the light hits them right. “This one,” he says quietly. “This one’s yours.”
She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth curving up. “Mine?”
He nods, still watching her. “Yeah. You should make yourself one too.”
She studies it, the smile deepening just a little. “It’s kinda pretty,” she says. Then, softer, “I’ll work on it next week.”
She grabs her bag off the floor and hugs it to her chest. “I’ll go change,” she says, voice light, casual—too casual. “Then we can go.”
Jake nods, and I just grunt, because my mouth’s dry and my thoughts aren’t fit for daylight.
She turns toward the stairs, bare feet padding softly against the wood, but then she hesitates—comes back.
Before I can ask why, she tugs at the zipper of the hoodie she’s wearing. My hoodie.
The sound of it sliding open feels obscene in the quiet kitchen.
She peels it off slowly, like she’s not even aware of how the motion looks—how the hem of it brushes against her thighs before slipping off her shoulders, revealing smooth, sun-warmed skin and that tiny bikini that’s already burned into my fucking retinas.
She folds it once, twice, and holds it out to me, her fingers brushing mine. “I'm sorry it's full of sand,” she says softly, eyes darting away, like she’s not sure if she’s apologizing or teasing.
I take it—reluctantly. Every muscle in my hand wants to refuse it, wants to push it back at her and tell her to keep it, that she looks better in it than I ever will. But instead, I let my fingers close around the fabric.
Her skin prickles instantly—tiny goosebumps rising along her arms, her shoulders. She feels it. She has to. My gaze isn’t gentle, and she knows it.
For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us is heavy—thick with everything I want and everything I can’t have. Yet.
Then she clears her throat, turning so fast her curls whip over her shoulder. “Okay,” she says, voice too bright, “I’ll be quick.”
And just like that, she’s gone—disappearing up the stairs, hips swaying with every step, that small bag bumping against her leg as she vanishes into the washroom.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Jake’s watching me with a knowing smirk, and I ignore it.
Because all I can think about is how that hoodie still smells like her now—sun, salt, and vanilla—and how I’m already losing my goddamn mind over a girl who has no idea the kind of hunger she’s stirring.
Jake unzips his bag and pulls out a clean shirt, tossing it onto the counter before running a hand down his face. “Fuck, man,” he mutters, voice rough. “I don’t know how long I can keep my composure around her.”
He leans his palms on the counter, staring down like the wood grain might give him answers. “Every time she talks, every time she smiles—it’s like she’s daring me not to want her. And I can’t. I fucking can’t.”
He looks up at me then, eyes dark. “I want her to be mine.” He exhales through his teeth. “I mean—ours. I want her to be ours, like… now.”
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to will away the heat crawling up my neck. The hoodie still in my hands feels heavier than it should, like it’s holding the imprint of her body in it. “You think I’m not feeling the same fucking way?” I say quietly. “Every time she’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose it.”
Jake gives a low, humorless laugh. “She has no idea. That baffles me.”
“She doesn’t,” I agree. “And maybe that’s what’s keeping us from crossing a line. But fuck…”
I look toward the staircase, toward the faint sound of water running in the washroom.
“She’s up there in that bathroom, probably brushing sand off her skin, changing into something soft, and I’m standing here trying not to think about how much I want to be the one doing it for her.”
Jake lets out a low whistle, reaching down to control himself. “You’re not helping.”
“Wasn’t trying to.”
We stand there in silence for a moment, both of us tense, both of us staring at the same spot where she vanished.
Jake finally breaks it. “You still think we can pull this off? The whole—” he gestures vaguely “—whatever the hell we’re doing?”
I glance at him, then at the hoodie in my hands. “I think we don’t have a choice anymore.”
He nods slowly, jaw tightening.
And for the first time since that fight, it feels like we’re perfectly aligned again—two men circling the same gravity, unable to break free even if we wanted to.