MY EX'S BEST FRIEND

3. Cole

I had to crane my neck to see his face—I'd forgotten how tall he was, though almost everyone was taller than me. “Hello, Cole.” He smiled that same small, knowing smile that always felt like he could read me, and it annoyed me. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He shrugged. “My team and I were celebrating a win. We go to nationals next month.” He nodded toward the crowd behind me, but I didn't turn; I knew who he meant, and I didn't want to see him. “He isn't here,” Cole said, leaning closer since the song had gotten louder. His cologne—warm cedar and something sweet—brushed my skin. My alcohol-softened brain wanted to lean into that scent; instead, I stepped back and forced a wave.

“It was nice seeing you again, Cole. Congratulations—have fun.” I almost tripped moving away. I felt his gaze follow me as I threaded through the crowd toward my friends. I joined a group of strangers and danced, drink in hand, but someone kept watching. He reminded me of Rohan and of a life I was trying to forget.

A few more drinks and my defences thinned. Cole was still there, steady as a shadow. My dress rode up my thighs, and I didn't pull it down; the brush of fabric against my skin felt electric. Someone's hand slid around my waist, fingers rough and possessive, and Cole's expression shifted—hard, sharp. He pushed through the bodies, all long limbs and quiet intent. I remember slipping out into the night and puking, but not much else.

“What have you done to yourself, Ivy?” His hand found my braids and held them gently, the contrast between his firmness and the tenderness in his voice making me ache. I started crying. I felt like a ruin. “I'm drunk, Cole. I'm an alcoholic.” He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Let me get you some water.”

He sat me on a cold stone outside the club and dashed back inside. He came back with a paper cup, then another, and began wiping my face with damp napkins. “Why am I so stupid?” I kept asking. “You're not. He was the stupid one,” he said, soft and sure.

“He's your best friend; you shouldn't say that.” He laughed—low and startled. “That's why I can. He's my friend, but an idiot.”

“Would you believe I miss him?” The admission felt raw and ridiculous. “Yeah. The heart's stubborn like that.” His hand stayed at my knee, warm and steady. “Let's get you somewhere safe.”

“I don't live here,” I said. “Someone was supposed to drive us back.” My voice fractured. “I haven't seen them in an hour. They left me.”

Cole ran a hand through his hair, then bit his lip. “I know an Airbnb nearby.” I shook my head; I wasn't going with him.

“You do not get to say no,” he said with a firmness that brooked no argument. “You have nowhere to go, and I'm not leaving you here. Now shut up and let me call an Uber.”

A tiny Vitz arrived about ten minutes later. Cole helped me into the car, checking my bag, brushing fingertips along my collarbone when he wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. The jacket smelled faintly of him—smoke and spice—and heat pooled at the base of my throat. We forgot to check the jacket I had come with.

The studio was small, but tidy—a single light softened the room into honeyed shadows. “I'm sorry, Cole. I'll pay for the room. I didn't mean to put you in this situation.” My voice was thin.

“It's already paid for. I was coming to sleep here tonight.” He said Rohan had guests over. The admission that he'd thought to plan ahead for me felt intimate, an unspoken care that tightened something in my chest. “It's okay. Thank you.”

“Anytime. Now, let's get you cleaned up.” He moved around me with quiet competence—finding a towel, handing it to me, brushing a stray hair from my face. I watched him, my senses pin-pricked by the nearness. “Why are you doing this? You barely know me.”

“Do I need to know you to help?” He smiled, one corner of his mouth tugging up. “Plus, I already know you—your fiery temper Rohan always talked about.”

“I don't have a temper,” I said, half-laughing, half-defensive.

“You glared at me when I said hi to the club.” I looked down, heat creeping up my neck. “Maybe you have a point.” He chuckled and handed me the towel. A tattoo peeked from under his sleeve, a flash of ink that drew my fingers.

“I didn't know you had tattoos.” I reached to touch the flame at his wrist, and my hand kept moving, mapping the ripple of muscle and ink. The contact was electric—brief, charged. “This looks nice.” I tasted my own sudden boldness and licked my lips. Rohan had been neat and ordered; Cole was everything messy and magnetic—locks, ink, and a dark halo of warmth that made my pulse stutter.

“Thank you. Want to see the rest?” His eyes glittered. I realized I'd been staring, jaw parted, flushed, and vulnerable.

“Maybe later,” I whispered, cheeks burning, and slipped into the bathroom to hide the tremor in my hands and the warmth rising into my cheeks.

Cole's POV

“Fuck.” Watching her rush to the bathroom, my chest tightened. I hadn't meant to invite this exact kind of trouble, but the way she'd touched the ink—fingers curious, breath hitching—had done something to me. Bringing her here was reckless. I would probably regret it and devour it in the same breath.

The shower ran long. Fifteen minutes later it stopped, then quiet. I knocked. “You okay, Spark?”

“I don't have anything to wear,” she whispered. When the lock turned, she peered out like a small, fragile thing. “Could you please lend me your shirt?” Her voice made my skin prickle.

I didn't think—took my shirt off and moved closer to the door, handing it to her. The cotton slid across my hands and into hers; she held it like a promise.

Her eyes skimmed my chest and down my abdomen, slow and unabashed. Her low, delighted breath brushed the hollow at my throat. “I guess now is later,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes in a way that made the world narrow to the sight of her, and then she turned and locked the door.

The hallway smelled like her shampoo and the faint ghost of the club. I stood there, shirt-sleeves empty, all the carefully built walls I kept around me collapsing in a deliciously inevitable way.

I'm screwed.