Weston

Leighton Langford had a way of ruining my day without even trying.

Case in point: right now. I'm sitting in the corner booth of the campus cafeteria with three of my teammates, a plate of half-eaten pasta in front of me, and all the blood draining from my head because she's right there.

Leighton.

Shiny hair pulled back with a navy ribbon, matching her polka dot dress. Because of course she matches. Of course she looks like a walking Pinterest board. And of course she’s laughing—laughing—with that guy. Pinstripe shirt, Cartier watch, posture like he was born inside the stock market. One of those finance bros who probably had a Roth IRA before he hit puberty.

“West,” Carter says, throwing a tater tot at me. “Dude. You’ve been staring at that table like it owes you money.”

I blink, but my eyes go right back to her. I can’t help it. She’s tucked into a seat at the corner of the room, twirling her straw in a way that makes me remember things I should not be remembering in public. Like the way she used to curl her fingers in my hair when she kissed me. Or how she looked in my bed wearing one of my T-shirts and nothing else, asking if we could put on Love Island—because she knew I’d groan and pretend I hated it.

(I didn’t. I knew all their names. Still do.)

And now she’s over there, giving him that smile.

That guy doesn’t know that Leighton Langford talks in her sleep, or that she eats cake for breakfast when she’s stressed about her law readings. That she brings her own pillowcase because “boys never wash theirs.” He doesn’t know that she gets cold easily, that she likes it when you kiss her just under her jawline, that she always—always—puts her phone on Do Not Disturb past 10 p.m. like it’s sacred ritual.

He doesn’t know how she tastes when she laughs into your mouth. How warm she gets when she’s falling asleep on your chest. How every night she stayed over, she’d make me feel like the luckiest idiot on earth.

“You’re gonna snap your neck, man,” Mason mutters around a mouthful of fries. “If you look any harder, your eyes are gonna pop out.”

“She broke up with him, remember?” Carter says. “He’s not over her, but she’s definitely over him.”

I don’t respond. Because they’re not wrong.

It’s been three weeks since I told her I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I said the words like I thought she’d wait. Like I thought she’d understand that I was trying to figure my life out, not end whatever the hell we had.

She’d blinked. Stood up. Smoothed her dress and said, “I don’t wait around, Weston.”

And then she walked out of my apartment, ribbon in her hair, dignity in her spine, and not once did she turn around.

I haven’t touched anyone since. Haven’t wanted to. Not since the first time I had her, and every other girl turned into a sad comparison. Not when I still swear I hear her laugh every time I pass my couch—the one where she used to throw popcorn at me when I made fun of her reality shows. Not when her favorite mug is still in my cabinet and I can’t bring myself to get rid of it.

With a sigh, I push my tray away and stand up. I shouldn’t go over there. *I won’t go over there.*But my body is already moving like it didn’t get the memo.

Because Leighton Langford is everything. And I was a dumbass for letting her slip through my fingers like she was some casual fling. Like I didn’t spend every second of that month waiting for her texts like a man possessed. Like I didn’t fall for her when she folded my laundry without asking, or when she curled up on my couch with her legs in my lap like she belonged there.

I’m not ready for a relationship.

Yeah. What a load of shit.

I pass by her table, and she looks up. Our eyes meet, and for half a second, the world tips. I don't even think before I'm stopping to talk to her, like an idiot.