The rain had started halfway through the walk, soaking the streets, their clothes, their silence. The heels of her boots clicked sharply against the pavement, a stubborn rhythm beside Gibsie’s heavier steps. Neither of them had spoken since they left the party — not since she’d let that guy whisper in her ear, and not since Gibsie had danced with a girl he didn’t know just to prove a point.

She hugged her jacket tighter around herself. “You don’t have to walk me home.”

Gibsie stopped dead in his tracks. “Christ, would you stop doing that?”

She turned to face him, startled. “Doing what?”

He ran a hand through his soaked hair, the rain making it stick in clumps. “Acting like this doesn’t mean anything. Acting like you didn’t spend the whole night flirting with some knobhead who couldn’t spell your name if you paid him.”

“You were all over that girl in the kitchen, Gerard.”

“Yeah, because you started it,” he snapped, stepping closer. “You do this thing where you look at me like I’m just your stupid childhood best friend and then turn around and act like it doesn’t kill me when you laugh like that with someone else.”

Her eyes widened. Rain streaked down her cheeks like glass.

“I’m not a saint,” he said, breath heavy. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want more. That seeing you with someone else doesn’t feel like someone’s setting fire to my ribs.”

He swallowed hard. “You want to make me jealous? Fine. It worked. It worked so damn well I nearly threw a punch tonight.”

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move. Just stood there, eyes locked on his, lips parted like the words were there but refusing to leave.

Gibsie looked at her, rain dripping from his lashes, chest rising and falling in jagged breaths.

When she still didn’t answer, he gave a hollow laugh and turned away, muttering, “Unreal.”