"SHOULD WE GO to my place, or do you want me to take you home?" Takoda asked with a glance in my direction after we were already on the 101. The first two words of his question were drowned out by the music, something by Alexander Stewart, before he turned it down until it was barely audible.

"You said you wanted us to talk," was what I offered in place of a response. He didn't say anything, gently pushing a few locks of hair off his face instead, and after a moment too long in silence, I expanded, "We can't talk at mine."

My feet were hot in my suede boots, the backs of my thighs stuck to the passenger seat through my black leather skirt—though that part was probably on me for thinking it was okay to be in leather in this heat—and I could feel sweat forming beneath my arms even though my top was thin-strapped. Even though the AC was blasting.

"You hungry?" he asked again.

"Not really."

"Why do I feel like there's something you want to say to me?"

I smiled. I actually smiled, and he did a double take when he noticed. "You deserve yet another Grammy award for that one."

"What is it?"

I let my amusement drop. "Are we just gonna pretend your ex-girlfriend wasn't there to surprise you? Or that you looked happy to see her, and vice versa?"

"I was happy to see her. I haven't seen her at all this year."

A little outraged at how casual his response was, I turned to face him in the seat, folding one leg beneath my body. "Takoda."

"What do you want from me, Cleo?"

"What do I want from you?"

"Why exactly are we talking about this?"

"She told me you two have been talking."

"So?"

My lips parted to provide a follow-up to his question, but the words I'd mentally prepared got lost on their way out, and I could feel my eyebrows drawing closer to the middle of my forehead. "Am I the only one you weren't speaking to, Takoda?" I asked instead, my voice quieter than I intended.

He took a moment to respond, the veins in his free hand popping as he grabbed the steering wheel. "No."

"Well, did any of the other people you weren't talking to call and text you about fifty times a day?"

"Cleo—"

"No, I'm not gonna sit here and pretend like that doesn't suck, okay?" Strangely, I got emotional after saying those words out loud, and it was only then that I realized what exactly I said and what exactly it meant.

"We've talked about this—"

"Did I really mean anything to you?"

He placed a hand against his forehead and muttered something I didn't quite catch. I knew it was a swear word, though. "Do you care or do you not?"

I didn't want to respond to that, but I didn't have much of a choice. "What?"

"One minute you're making it clear that you don't want anything to do with me, and that you're better off not listening to anything I have to say, then the next you're either up in my business or kissing me. What exactly is it that you want, Cleo?"

I was pretty sure that somewhere in my mind, the answer to his question sat staring at him through my eyes, but I couldn't locate it. I just . . . looked at him, a little surprised at where this conversation was going. A little surprised that it was quickly getting out of my control.

"I didn't plan on texting Alex—I was pretty sure she'd blocked me—but one day she texted out of the blue, and we were both free but miles apart, so we FaceTimed, and now we're good. Alex and I were friends long before we dated, she's really mature, and I respect her for that, so yeah." He threw me a look, and I noted that his eyes were a little cold—as cold as he could get, anyway. As though he was pissed at me or something. "We've been talking, and I was happy to see her today."

Long after he'd gone back to focusing on the road, I stared at him, fully registering the fact that he'd just called me immature, basically comparing me with his ex-girlfriend. The same person he left for me. Who did that? For a brief moment, I was forced to wonder if he regretted that now. If he wished, as he looked at her earlier, that the thought had never crossed his mind. If he was wondering why it was me he took for ice cream the other day and not Xandra. I'd basically scoffed at him when he told me he still loved me, only to ask a few minutes ago if I meant anything to him.

What exactly is it that you want, Cleo?

I really was immature.

With that realization in mind, I turned back to the windshield with my jaw hurting.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him look at me, saw his eyes linger, saw him turn back to the windshield after a few seconds. Then he let out a breath. "I'm sorry," he said, gentler. "I didn't mean to be a jerk. I just don't feel like I get you anymore. You used to be the least difficult person I knew, but now it's like you're never ready to talk about anything, intensifying this tension that's hanging over our heads, and you're always looking for someone to let out your frustration on. Trying to figure you out now . . . It's tiring."

I was immature. I was difficult. I was tiring.

I took everything to heart. I treated everything like it was personal.

"I know I don't have the right to tell you any of this—I definitely don't—but I'm seeing more of you than I thought I would, and with this PR thing, I just feel like we have to meet somewhere." He was quiet for a minute, and I believed he was done talking, but then he added, "I also can't stop thinking about you."

My body jolted a bit at that, but I fought to keep it still and stop myself from looking at him.

"As much as you confuse me, and as much as you drive me crazy sometimes, you're still on my mind. I think about your smile, your voice, and how I'm finding it difficult to come to terms with the way you look now, with how much you changed in six months. I remember you at Coco's and how perfect you were, and how I couldn't get enough of you. Many times, while I was away, I visualized seeing you again, but none of that could actually prepare me for the real thing. You're on my mind so much that I'm starting to feel like I'm losing touch. So my answer is yes. I do think it's going to happen again. I think about you and about being with you again, probably more than should be considered legal."

I made sure he was really done that time before getting over myself and asking, "What are you saying?"

Takoda gave me a humorless smile, rubbing a hand over his face. "I'm not sure I know."

I didn't know what to do with that, so I remained quiet, repeating as many of his sentences as I could remember over and over in my head, hoping they would only make more sense.

"I'm not sure it's practical," he said, his voice quiet, and immediately, I remembered his text from that morning, asking if kissing was something we did now.

I'm not talking about just yesterday.

Then how semi-frantic he sounded on the phone.

My stomach hollowed out, and unlike the past ten minutes, the air from the AC was suddenly too cold, rolling down my back in terrifying batches. My heartbeat picked up speed, and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms when I replayed Takoda's words in my head again. When I really understood what they meant.

A little hesitant, I looked at him, hoping to steal the moment, but ending up feeling another cold wave crash into me when I saw that he was looking at me, too. I could've averted my gaze, tried to shake off the cold and convince my body that it wasn't supposed to feel that way right now, but I indulged my heightened emotions and stared into his eyes for as long as he could stare back.

The moment I stepped through the front doors into his quiet, air-conditioned house, I asked myself if I was making a mistake.

I knew better than to be this person all over again. I knew better than to foolishly follow my emotions like I did for an entire year. I knew better than to open doors through which I could get hurt all over again. I knew the right thing to do. I knew being here was no longer necessary since he'd already told me what he wanted. I knew I could leave, knew he wouldn't stop me. But then I heard him come in behind me and instinctively turned to face him, gently pulling on my fingers—in a weak attempt to ward off the strange cold that had gripped my bones, to get some feeling into them—and all reasoning was lost. His eyes were hooded, so I couldn't really tell what he was thinking, but with the way he closed the door—quietly, without breaking eye contact, as if desperate not to startle anything—made it clear he was thinking something.

"Where's Lulu?" I asked as I swallowed to hydrate my dry throat, my voice echoing in the foyer. If she were home, she'd have been coming full speed down the hallway by now.

He watched me for a second longer, leaning against the front door, before saying, "At Colette's."

I nodded, not failing to note that I liked the fact that he was the only person that frequently called my sister by her full name, and he remained where he was for a few heartbeats before gently pushing himself off the door and walking towards me. I could hear myself breathing long before he was close enough for this reaction from me to be considered sensible. He stopped in front of me before reaching for the small decorative glass tray sitting on the vintage chest of drawers by the wall. I didn't move. I forced myself to stop breathing when I heard his keys clink against the glass, kept my eyes on him even though I could see that he was trying his best not to return the favor.

Our bodies were so close that I could feel the warmth radiating from him, creating an intoxicating concoction with the cold from the air conditioners. He placed the fingers of his right hand on the edge of the furniture behind me, quietly caging me in from one side, his head still down. He was fighting this, and I should've helped him. Stopped him. Distracted us from the prospect of pleasure that would definitely be followed by ounces of regret. That was the thing about this. When you're stimulated, it becomes the only thing on your mind, and even though you know you shouldn't give in, even though you know you'll only hate yourself after all the ripples of satisfaction have flowed through you, you're still more interested in the promise. The promise of a good time. A time spent with someone you can't stop feeling attracted to, no matter how hard you try.

I should've helped Takoda in seeing reasons why this would eventually be bad for us, but I didn't. I just remained there, watching his hesitant movements, watching as he slowly lifted his eyes to mine, as he took another step closer to me and erased the unnecessary space between us.

His breathing matched mine, and I saw his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he took me in, his eyes darting between both of mine.

I was nearly almost completely pressed up against the chest of drawers at this point, so I at least had something to lean against now that I was starting to have a hard time feeling my legs. My stomach rumbled in response to everything—the promise, our proximity, him.

He made a low, frustrated sound at the back of his throat after a long moment of standing there, before placing his free hand on one side of my face and pressing his lips against mine. Tingles skipped beneath my skin for just one second before he was putting distance between us, running a hand through his hair, and facing the wall across from me.

"Shit," he whispered, lifting his head to the ceiling and remaining that way for about five seconds before turning to face me again. "Cleo."

I fought to speak around the lump in my throat. "Yeah?"

From the other side of the foyer, he watched me the same way he did earlier, his eyes looking pained but clouded over at the same time. Then, just as quickly as he'd pulled away, he was back in front of me, one hand on the curve of my waist, lips once again on mine. It was drugging this time, so much that I didn't realize that it was my spine against the edge of the chest of drawers, even though something at the back of my mind registered the pain.

My hands were starting to tremble as they lay idle by my side, so I grabbed a fistful of his shirt with one of them and used it to pull him forward until we were pressed flush against each other, and in return, against the vintage furniture.

Takoda pulled away from me again, but didn't go anywhere, instead running his nose along the side of my face and whispering desperately against my ear, "Please tell me to stop."

My eyes drifted closed when he nuzzled a sweet spot just below my ear, his breath against my skin raising the hairs on my arms, and I heard myself breathlessly say, "No," without feeling my lips moving.

He made that sound again, awakening something feral in me, before reconnecting our lips, kissing me long and slow, pushing me further up that chest of drawers. At one point, one of his hands came down to my right thigh, smoothing down the leather as he gently brought it around his waist, his lips not leaving mine, not even for a fraction of a second. A sudden burst of sensation at the contact made my breath quiver, made my grip on his shirt tighten impossibly. I leaned back against the edge of the drawer, my free hand making contact with his key tray as I struggled to get comfortable, and he seemed to notice that, because his other arm was going around the other side of my waist in no time, holding me to him while simultaneously moving us closer to the wall, closer to the blunter edge.

But we didn't stop kissing.

I was seriously starting to wonder if this was where we were going to do everything, right there in his foyer, when I felt his hand trailing up the inside of my right thigh, and unable to hold myself together, I let our lips part, giving way to a sound I hadn't made in a long time. My hands got to work, going up under his shirt, trying to hold off on undoing his buttons so soon, and one of his crept closer to the sensitive spot between my thighs. I couldn't see through my heavy eyelids, couldn't get my jaw to move, couldn't get my brain to do much except remind me of Takoda, Takoda, Takoda. I kissed his lips, his neck, his Adam's apple, moving so I could sit on the chest of drawers instead of lean against it.

He was quick to respond, assisting in getting me up in one quick motion, then taking his place between my legs even as his hand continued its agonizingly slow trip to the most sensitive part of my body. When he reached the hem of my underwear, my mind fell quiet, my breathing falling out in short, equally quiet gasps, and he met my eyes with glassy, passionate ones, teasing me, stalling.

I impatiently waited for the first swipe of his thumb against me, anticipated it, registered that this was a huge step-up from when we were at my sister's, when all our movements had been a bit hurried, when we'd been chasing time. After what felt like ages, his touch came closer and closer—

Then something tore through the moment, jerking us out of our haze before we even realized what it was.

His phone.

His damn phone was ringing.

Takoda groaned, probably sounding more frustrated than I'd ever heard him, leaning his forehead against mine a moment before reaching for the device in his back pocket. Quicker than I intended, I caught his hand.

"Don't answer it," I pleaded in a whisper against his lips.

"It could be important."

"Just pretend it's not with you. Come on." In an effort to make my advice more appealing, I slid my hands up his shoulders as I spoke, connecting them behind his neck and letting my fingers play with the hair at the base, remembering that he'd told me how much he liked that.

He appeared to think about it for a moment, making me feel like a potter, then he kissed me, but to my disappointment, pulled away afterwards, his hand falling away from my thighs as mine slid off his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to ignore calls."

I took a slow, steadying breath, trying not to let my disappointment show as I watched him take me in. Something was swimming in his eyes, but before I could give a name to it, he swiped his thumb over his screen and brought the device to his ear, turning away from me.

"Hey, May." He was silent for a moment as he listened to what May had to say. "No, I just got back." Silence again, then he gave me a glance over his shoulder. "She's here, actually—no, May. She was backstage at the show." He listened again. "No."

Before he could give another response, he was walking away from me and into the living room, and I massaged the back of my neck, trying to get some of the tension to leave my body.

I couldn't believe myself.

As I vaguely listened to him talk to his publicist on the phone, my mind sped through everything that led us to this very moment, and I found it hard regaining my breath. I touched my fingers to my lips, as though that would help me make better sense of this, touched a hand to my chest so I could feel my beating heart, told myself to say no to this thing inside me that always allowed me to make stupid, spontaneous decisions. I couldn't kiss Takoda again. I couldn't let him touch me like that again and turn me into putty in his hands.

"God," I whispered to myself after a few minutes, my breathing still unsteady. Help me do the right thing, I completed in my head. I didn't want to move, too terrified of the spot between my legs brushing up against the fabric of my underwear and making this even more difficult, so I stayed where I was, long after Takoda got off his call and stopped talking.

The silence in his house could almost be touched, and I imagined he was trying hard not to move either, fixed to his living room couch because he was scared that if he got off it, he'd come back to me. Like a magnet.

The longer I sat there, the longer I thought about this, the shallower my breathing got, and I realized with an ache in my chest that there were tears in my eyes. I didn't get to this point in my life through pure will. My sister wanted me to get friendly with her best friend as a plot device for her show, and I was pretty sure I was detached from the conversation until I started paying too much attention to the way he was smiling at me, to the fact that he wasn't pissed at my bluntness like everybody else. Then he asked to see again, I said yes, we started getting to know each other, in more ways than one, and I started getting obsessed with him. Then he broke my heart, took off for six months, and now here we were.

I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this. I was tired and didn't want to do this again.

I pushed myself further back on the chest of drawers as my eyes filled up faster than they had in months, and I tried to push the tears back, but they resisted, fighting back. I didn't know if it was because I saw his ex today, or because of the conversation surrounding her that we had in the car, or everything in general, but I felt a new wave of hurt, as if it was all happening again, and I was too caught up in my emotions to notice when Takoda came back to me, only becoming aware of his presence when he took my hand in his.

Instead of drawing back or cleaning the tears off my face, I just sat there, watching his thumb move against my skin, sniffling at intervals.

"What happened to us, Takoda?" I asked, softly, after a moment.

He hesitated, his touch freezing on the back of my hand. I didn't look up, already knowing what I'd see in his eyes if I did.

"Why did we let things get this hard?"

"I think I self-destructed," he responded, his voice like a soft breeze.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He hesitated again, and this time I looked at him, connected our glassy gazes. His grip on my hand fell slack, as though he was too weak to hold on, and not willing to let him detach himself from me again, despite my mini breakdown a few minutes ago, I hooked my small finger with his, feeling that same hum travel through his skin to mine at the contact and pool at the bottom of my stomach. I didn't want to still feel this for him, but I also couldn't help it.

"I didn't know how to." He averted his gaze, but just for a moment.

"You told me that we were a mistake, Takoda. What if this is, too?"

"I didn't mean that."

"Then why did you say it?" My vision got blurry then, as if all my body parts were just starting to catch up to the situation. "The entire time you were gone, I—" I paused, took in a breath. "I'm petty, okay? I indirectly attack people I'm mad at on social media, I take out my emotions on people that don't deserve it, I'm insecure as hell, and I hate myself approximately fifty times a day. I can't be like Xandra or Robin or my sister. I can't be the bigger person." I didn't know what I was saying or where I was going with any of it, but I knew that it was important for me to speak. "You hurt me, Takoda, then you left, and I tried to reach out, to make you explain what I did, because everything was so sudden and I was confused, but you weren't answering the phone or replying to my texts, and I went from wondering what I did to remembering everything you said to me, and I couldn't help but believe all of it. I couldn't help but believe that you lied to me, that everything that happened between us was nothing but fun to you. I don't know when exactly I started to hate the sound of your name, the memory of your face, all the people on social media wondering where you were, and every Spotify playlist with your songs in them, but I started to hate you. I hated you for stringing me along, hated you for hurting me.

"I was so messed up by everything that happened, so angry that I invested so much in you, that I couldn't even remember who I was anymore. I still can't. It's not that I don't want to talk to you or clear things up. I just . . . I'm just really hurting. And this," I gestured between us with my free hand, "just makes it easier somehow. I know it's stupid; you don't have to tell me. I know I'm unstable."

My voice cracked at the tail end, and it was only then that I noticed how hot my face was, how much my chest was hurting, like my heart was getting physically hit over and over again. Putting all those words out there, after spending so long in this back and forth with myself, had me trembling, and after I came to the realization that Takoda didn't say a word throughout, just listened, exactly the way he used to, my eyes welled up with another batch of tears.

"I'm sorry," I said with a shaky voice, finally brushing tears off my face. "I'm not making any sense."

His free hand came up to my tear-soaked face at that moment and stopped a stubborn one before it could roll too far. I sniffled again, suddenly too aware of our proximity.

Wow, this was embarrassing.

"I'm sorry," I said again, firmer this time, parting our hands and sitting up straighter. "I should—"

"Please," he told me in a whisper, his thumb absently moving against my cheek. "Stay."

"Takoda, I can't."

He leaned forward until his forehead touched mine, and I couldn't leave my eyes open. "Please," he repeated, the crack in his voice matching the one in mine. "I know I messed up, and I know nothing I do or say would erase any of it. Just . . . don't go. Please."

There was desperation in his voice, and I noted that the last time I heard it, he was having a breakdown, sitting on his bedroom floor with his head in his hands.

Please don't go, he'd said, even though I'd made no attempt to move from my position next to him. It had taken all night to get his temperature back to normal after he'd taken his meds, and for the next few days after that, he'd been quiet—more than usual.

I didn't respond, didn't say if I was going to stay or not, but I didn't move, and after a moment, he took my hand again, and I let him, opening my eyes to see him looking down at our joined hands, his forehead still resting against mine. This way, with him unaware that I was watching, I saw the exact moment his mask slipped off, saw him looking as vulnerable as he did that day I found him sitting on his bedroom floor. And because I could, I touched his face just like he'd touched mine, and he melted into the warmth of my hand, remaining bare even though I wasn't expecting him to.

I didn't know what that meant.

this took me a surprisingly smaller number of hours to edit! yes, i'm definitely stalling. don't wanna type the author's note i haven't thought of yet. still processing the fact that i wrote this.