Chapter 101: 101 | I Hate You, I Hate You, I—

"I can see that."

"French toast. Your favorite."

"I know what french toast is, Lukas."

"Great. Sit down."

"Don’t tell me what to do."

I raised an eyebrow. "You’d rather I throw it away?"

Her jaw tightened. She looked at the plate. At me. Back at the plate. The internal war played out in real time across her face. Pride versus the smell of cinnamon and butter. Pride was losing.

"Fine." She stomped over to the table and dropped into her chair hard enough to make it scrape against the tile. "But I’m only eating because you already made it. Not because I forgive you."

"Noted." I sat across from her and slid the plate closer. "Help yourself."

She didn’t move. Just stared at the food like it might explode. Like accepting it meant something she wasn’t ready to accept yet.

"It’s not poisoned," I said.

"I know that."

"Then eat."

"Stop rushing me."

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. "Take your time."

She grabbed a fork and stabbed a piece of french toast with more violence than strictly necessary for breakfast. Brought it to her mouth. Chewed slowly. Deliberately. Like she was refusing to enjoy it on principle.

She swallowed.

Her eyes closed.

There it was.

The exact moment the taste hit and the argument she’d been having with herself stopped mattering. Her shoulders dropped half an inch. Her grip on the fork relaxed.

"Good?" I asked.

"It’s fine."

"Just fine?"

"Don’t fish for compliments."

"I’m not fishing. I’m asking an honest question."

She stabbed another piece. Took another bite. This one faster than the first. "It’s good. Happy?"

"Very."

We sat in silence while she ate. She demolished three pieces before coming up for air. Drank half the orange juice in one go. Grabbed another strawberry.

I watched her the whole time. Watched the way her shoulders relaxed. The way the tension in her jaw softened. The way she stopped looking like she wanted to murder me and started looking like the Sloane I knew.

Almost.

"You worked out this morning," she said finally.

"Yeah."

"Without me."

"You weren’t available."

"I’m always available for training."

"Not today you weren’t."

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"It means you locked yourself in your room all night." I leaned forward. "It means you were avoiding me."

"I wasn’t avoiding you. I was giving you space."

"Bullshit."

Her eyes flashed. "Excuse me?"

"You were avoiding me, babe. It’s fine. I get it. I fucked up."

"Don’t call me that right now."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m still mad at you."

"Okay." I reached across the table and took her hand. "Be mad. Eat your french toast. We can do both."

She tried to pull her hand away. I held on tighter.

"Lukas."

"Yeah?"

"Let go."

"No."

"I’m serious."

"So am I."

She glared at me. Her face was getting redder. Not the angry kind of red. The other kind. The flush crept down her neck. Her pulse was visible in her throat.

"You’re sweaty," she said.

"I worked out."

"You smell."

"You like it."

"I don’t."

She yanked her hand back and stood up fast enough to send her chair scraping against the floor. "I’m not lying! You’re just an asshole who thinks he can fix everything by cooking breakfast shirtless and looking all—"

She stopped mid-sentence like someone had cut her audio.

"All what?" I stood and walked around the table. Slowly. "Say it."

"No."

"Say it, Sloane."

"I hate you."

"No you don’t."

"Yes I do!"

I stopped directly in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. Close enough that I could see her pupils blown wide. Could see the way her breathing had gone shallow and unsteady.

"You hate me?" I asked. My voice came out quieter than I’d intended.

"Yes."

"Then why are you still standing here?"

"Because you’re blocking the exit."

"I’m not blocking anything. You could walk away right now."

She didn’t move. Didn’t even shift her weight.

"You could go back upstairs. Lock yourself in your room again. Ignore me for the rest of the day."

Still nothing. Just her standing there. Looking up at me with those wide blue eyes like she was waiting for something.

"But you’re not going to do that." I reached up. Tucked a loose strand of pink hair behind her ear. My fingers brushed against her skin. "Are you?"

Her breath caught.

"Lukas."

"Yeah?"

"Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you want to kiss me."

I smiled. Couldn’t help it. "Maybe I do."

"You don’t get to kiss me right now. You lost that privilege when you—" She stopped. Swallowed hard. "You lost it."

"Okay."

"I’m serious."

"I believe you."

"Good."

We stood there. Neither of us moving. Neither of us backing down. My fingers were still resting against the side of her face. Just barely touching. She hadn’t pulled away.

Her eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second. Then snapped back up.

"Lukas."

"Sloane."

"Did you fuck my mom last night?"

And there it was.

The actual question. The one she’d been sitting on since she woke up. The one that had made her lock herself in her room instead of meeting me in the gym this morning.

I could lie. Could deflect. Could tell her it was complicated or that we needed to talk about this later when she wasn’t upset.

But she’d know. She always knew when I was lying to her.

"Yes," I said.

Her face went completely blank. Not angry. Not hurt. Just empty. "Yes."

"Yes."

"After I ran out of your room crying, you went to her bedroom and had sex with her."

"She came to me first. But yeah. We had sex."

Sloane’s hand moved so fast I almost didn’t see it coming.

The slap cracked across my face hard enough to make my ears ring.

My head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed across my cheek. I tasted copper.

When I turned back to her, her hand was still raised. Tears were streaming down her face.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know."

"I actually hate you."

"Okay."

"How could you do that?" Her voice broke. "I was right down the hall. I was crying because you’d been with her and then you just went back to her like I didn’t matter at all."

"That’s not—"

"Don’t." She shoved my chest. Hard. I didn’t move. "Don’t you dare tell me that’s not what happened."

"Sloane—"

"I gave you everything." Another shove. "I trusted you. I let you be my first. I thought—" She stopped. Pressed her hands over her face. "I thought I was special to you."