Page 54 of Reckless Obsession

This isn’t normal.

I sit up, dragging a hand through my hair before pushing off the bed and pacing across the room. There’s too much restless energy under my skin, as if my body doesn’t know whether to laugh or throw something.

I didn’t sleep properly.

I kept checking my phone like an idiot, half-expecting the message to disappear. Like it was some kind of hallucination my brain cooked up for entertainment.

But no.

It’s still there. Still real. Still from him.

I drop to the floor, palms hitting the ground as I start doing Russian pushups, fast and deliberate, like if I keep moving, my body won’t have time to keep circling back to him.

It doesn’t work. It never does. My arms burn, my breathing turns rough, and all I can think about is the fact that it’s been over twelve hours and I still haven’t replied.

Twelve whole hours. That’s actually insane, even for me. I should answer. I know I should. This is the kind of opportunity you don’t play games with. You take it, hold it, and don’t let it slip through your fingers.

But instead, I’m on the floor. Angry for no reason I can properly name.

Actually, that’s a lie.

I know exactly why.

Because it’s him.

Because one message from him is enough to knock something loose in my gut that I usually keep locked down tight. I hate that. I hate how my heart reacts as if it’s been waiting for this, like it’s stupid enough to think this means something. I hate that even after everything, after the way he ignores me as if I’m disposable, as if I’m something he can pick up and drop whenever it suits him, there’s still a part of me that leans into it.

Actually, no. Let’s be honest.

I don’t just lean into it.

I like it.

God, I’m actually sick in the head.

I push through the last rep with a quiet curse, arms trembling slightly as I hold myself there for a second longer than necessary, as if I’ve got something to prove. Then I drop and roll onto my back, chest rising and falling hard, sweat cooling on my skin.

My phone rings.

I turn my head, already knowing who it is before I even see the screen.

Lucas.

I pick up, voice rough, breath still uneven.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not mad at you.” He says.

His voice is soft and steady, exactly as it always is, and it hits me harder than it should. My chest tightens as something loosens at the same time, as if I’ve been bracing for impact that never comes.

“You sure?” I ask, quieter now, my voice still a little wrecked from the workout.

“Oh my God, Maks—” Tyler’s voice cuts in immediately, loud and dramatic. “Is that your morning voice or your workout voice? It’s so hot I might die.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it.

“Relax,” I mutter. “You’ll live.”