~Martha
Adrian’s sprawled on the couch, one arm slung over the back, legs kicked out like he owns the world.
He’s in a black t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps, jeans faded at the thighs.
I’m curled in the armchair across from him, knees tucked under, trying to focus on the movie, a dumb action flick with explosions and zero plot.
My heart’s been hammering since I got here, half an hour ago, invited over to hang while Ava and her mom hit the grocery store.
I keep stealing glances at him. The way his jaw sharpens when he laughs at a bad line. The way his fingers tap the armrest, slow, deliberate. I’m not supposed to want him.
Not after Ava’s blowup, not after she called me a b***h in front of half the class. But he’s right there, all heat and edges, and the memory of his han
