Page 113 of Ice Cold Chemistry
Weston hauls furniture and glowers at everything, but when we’re debating between two different layouts, he surprises me by pulling up a 3Droom planning app on his phone.
“It’s easier to visualize,” he says gruffly when Logan stares at him. “What?”
“You have a home design app?”
“It’s useful.”
“You are full of surprises, Westy.”
“Don’t call me Westy.”
They’re a strange little trio. Logan, all sunshine and chaos, fills every silence with chatter. Rhys, wounded and watchful, speaks only when he has something worth saying. Weston, grumpy and guarded, is clearly more thoughtful than his scowl suggests.
“More muscles incoming!” Logan announces, peering out the window. “Zay and Banksy are here.”
My stomach drops.
I’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding him. It’s been three days since Tori told me about the trade talks, and I still haven’t figured out what to say. Part of me wants to scream at him. Part of me wants to cry. Most of me just wants to understand why he couldn’t trust me with the truth.
Through the window, I watch them climb out of Zayden’s SUV. Zayden says something that makes him gesture toward the house. Banks nods, and even from here—even through a window, at a distance—I can see the tension in his shoulders and the weariness in his posture.
He looks tired. More tired than when I saw him at the facility. Like he’s been carrying something heavy, and it’s finally starting to crush him.
Good. He should be tired. It’s probably exhausting trying tohide the truth from me.
The front door opens, and there he is.
His eyes find mine immediately, and something complicated passes across his face—relief, guilt, fear—all tangled together in an expression I’ve never seen him wear before.
“Win,” he says.
“Banks.”
The single word falls between us like a stone into still water, ripples spreading outward. Everyone feels it—the shift in the room, the sudden tension.
Zayden glances between us, clearly sensing the storm about to break. He’s known Banks longer than anyone; he can probably read the situation better than I can.
“I’m gonna… help with the truck,” he says carefully. “Logan, show me where things should go.”
Logan—finally reading the room—nods and sets down his beer. “Yeah, there’s a dresser that’s been giving us trouble. Rhys, Weston, come help.”
Rhys pushes off the couch without argument. Weston lingers in the doorway, his dark eyes narrowing as he looks at Banks and then at me. There’s something almost protective in his expression, which is bizarre given that we met just an hour ago.
“You need anything?” he asks me.
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
He nods once—short and decisive—and follows the others out. The door clicks shut behind him, and then it’s just me and Banks, alone in Logan’s half-furnished living room filled with too many boxes and not enough air.
The silence is suffocating.
Outside, I can hear the guys laughing about something, the scrape of furniture against the truck bed. Normal sounds. Happy sounds. Everything in here feels the opposite.
“I was going to call you,” Banks starts.
“Were you?”
“Yes. I just—I needed to figure out what to say.”
