That night, after regionals, Landon took me back to the loft to celebrate.
The city glittered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, soft and gold and endless, but it had nothing on the way he was looking at me.
Like he’d been holding himself together all day and now that we were finally alone, he didn’t want to anymore.
He handed me a glass of sparkling cider with that stupidly serious expression he wore when he was trying not to smile.
“To my favorite overachiever.”
I took it, amused. “To my favorite dramatic rockstar in training.”
He touched his glass to mine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I laughed, but my stomach was already tightening because his hand never really left me after that.
It stayed at the small of my back while we talked in the kitchen.
Brush
