“Hey. Come on in.”

This is such a bad idea.

But when I peek inside, his coffee table is covered in papers and books, and the pencil in his hand tells me he was working when I knocked on the door.

He really does just want to study. I can do this. I can. And if at any point it gets to be too much, I always have my trusty backup plan.

Walk away.

I step just far enough inside for him to close the door, but when he heads to the couch, I stay where I am. He has the overhead light on tonight, so the room is brighter, less intimidating. He looks up and in the well-lit room his blue eyes look almost electric.

“If we’re really going to be friends, I need some ground rules first,” I say.

When I was just stopping by for a few minutes to help him with homework, it wasn’t a problem. But hanging out two nights in a row is definitely a big deal. And big deals require rules.

His head tilts to the side, but he puts down his pencil and leans back on the couch.

“Okay. Whatcha got?”

“We don’t tell anyone we’re hanging out. Not yet.” Not until I know for sure this is something I can do without getting in over my head.

After a moment, he nods. “Okay. I won’t mention it to a soul until you’re ready to come out of the closet as my friend.”

I wince. “It’s not like that. I just . . . I can’t trust it won’t get back to my dad. You know what gossip is like here. And when he finds out, it should come from me.”

“Fair enough.” I swallow, acutely aware that it sounds like I’m negotiating the terms of a relationship that’s much more scandalous than a friendship.

“No questions about my dad. This should go without saying, but no using me to spend time with him. If you want to get on his good side, do it on the field, not through me.”

His eyes soften, and I swear my heart constricts like those imaginary strings around it have been pulled tight.

“I want to get to know you, Daredevil. Not your dad.”

I nod, glad to hear it, even though I’ve heard similar over the years from guys who turned out to be lying.

“If it gets to be too much, if it goes too far . . . either one of us just has to say the word, and it’s done. We walk away, and that’s that.”

His eyebrows knit together in an almost-scowl.

“You have this kind of contract with all your friends?”

“No,” I answer simply.

He waits, and I’m sure he’s expecting an explanation, but I don’t give it.

“Fine. Then I have a few stipulations of my own.”

I nod for him to go ahead. It’s only fair.

“Stay away from the other football players. Abrams, Moore, anyone who comes up to you in class or a party or whatever. If we’re keeping our worlds separate, then they need to stay that way. Completely.”

His voice is firm, an almost growl, as he says it. I don’t let myself think about the possessive edge in his tone. That’s a rabbit hole I can’t fall into.

“That’s an easy yes.”

He nods, but the troubled expression on his face doesn’t go away with my acceptance.

“We’re honest with each other, no matter how hard or awkward it is to say whatever needs to be said. We”—he uses a hand to gesture between us—“are a safe space. You can say anything to me, and I promise I’ll hear you out. I’ll listen. No matter what it is.”

I swallow, wondering just how honest he plans on getting, but I don’t refuse.

“Okay. Is that it?”

“You don’t walk away without an explanation. An honest one.”

“If that’s what you want.” It’s likely to be a brutal truth; it always is, but if he can take it, I can say it.

“All right, then. Come sit down.”

He scoots over, repositioning some of his papers so that there’s room on the coffee table for my stuff.

Last time, I was so caught up in keeping my cool and getting out of here as quickly as possible that I didn’t really look around. But this time I take a bit more liberty. The furniture is all older and generic, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find that it came with the apartment. The living room is dotted with athletic items—free weights in the corner, at least three footballs in various spots around the room, a basketball, an extra pair of tennis shoes. His playbook lies open on the coffee table next to his homework.

I sit down beside him gingerly, unnerved by how cool he is with all of this. Most guys would call me a nutjob and send me packing, especially when all those hoops to jump through are just for friendship and nothing else.

“What are you studying for?” I ask.

“Spanish,” he answers in a near-groan.

I laugh. “I take it foreign languages are not your thing.”

He pulls a pillow into his lap and lays a textbook across it. With his eyes on the page, he replies, “School is not my thing.”

He keeps scanning the page, so I take that as my cue that it’s not a subject that he wants to talk about. I bend over to rummage through my backpack for the book of essays I’m supposed to finish by tomorrow. It’s a thin book, not more than a hundred pages, but it’s drier than Dad’s attempts at cooking, and I’ve yet to manage to read more than one essay at a time.

I look over at Carson as I sit back, and catch him staring at the strip of skin on my back where my shirt has ridden up.

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re a little slow on the uptake when it comes to this friendship thing, huh?”

He grins. “Practice makes perfect.”

I roll my eyes and pull my legs up onto the couch, balancing the book on my knees and flipping open to the dog-eared page where I left off.

We work in silence like that for a while, and when I sneak the occasional look at him, he’s concentrating hard on the page in front of him, mouthing words silently. Verb conjugations, I’m guessing.

After I’ve read three essays, my brain feels like mush. Really boring mush. When I let out what is probably my fifth or sixth annoyed huff since I started reading, Carson’s eyes lift to mine.

“You want something to drink? Or eat?” he asks. “We could order in if you’re hungry.”

I wave a hand at him and stand up to stretch. Carson doesn’t try to hide the way his eyes follow my movement. “I’m fine. Go back to your Spanish. I just need to stretch a bit. I had a dance class this afternoon, and I stayed after to work on a piece of my own. Then I had another class tonight at my old dance studio.” Not to mention waking up bright and early for my shift at the Learning Lab. “I might have gone a bit overboard.”