“That would be awesome,” he says, surprising me. “What’s your number? I’ll just call you when I get home.”

Call me. Owen Harper wants to call me. On my phone. From his phone. He’s typing my name with his long thumbs, his hat low over his eyes, but not so low that I can’t see the thickness of his lashes and the way they move along the letters of my name. He hands the phone to me to type in my number, and I manage to find enough feeling in my fingers to take it from him without dropping it. I type in my number, and before I pass it back, I notice he’s written KENS, and it makes me smile.

“Cool,” he says, pushing the phone back in his pocket and backing up a few paces to his door. “So…thanks. Yeah, and…well…call you tomorrow?”

He actually stumbles a little when he hits the first step of his porch, but I pretend not to notice. I walk back to my door, click off the driveway lights, and move inside. The house is warm, and I didn’t realize how cold I was until now. I notice Owen’s cheese still on my counter, so I put it in the fridge before locking the back door and turning out the lights. I lock up front, and glance briefly at the piano I almost play before moving upstairs for bed.

I leave my window closed while I change into a pair of sweatpants and my favorite long-sleeved thermal, then I open the curtains and shut off the light, sliding my back against the edge of my mattress for my nightly ritual of waiting for Owen to shut his light off, too.

He rarely closes his curtains. The first few times, I felt embarrassed over what I saw, his bare chest, his boxers, his skin when he would change from his pants and shirt. I never saw too much, but it was more than I was used to seeing. I’ve always been a prude. Not because of any religious belief or self-promise to be a virgin until I met the right guy—intimacy just scared me. Dating intimidated me at Bryce, probably because most of the boys there were dropped off in Escalades and Audis and Teslas. They all seemed so entitled, and I didn’t trust any of them—ever.

Trust. I trust Owen.

When my phone vibrates, my body jolts with adrenaline, my stomach trained to feel sick at seeing Gaby’s name. She’s sent me several texts, and I’ve deleted every single one. Morgan has tried to call, too, and honestly, I know she is probably on my side with everything. Her messages relayed how shocked she was over what went on between Gaby and my father. But I haven’t been able to call Morgan back either. I’m just not ready to talk about it with anyone, and I know that’s all Morgan is going to want to talk about.

My thumb grazes over the END CALL button on instinct, but I pause when I realize the number on the screen isn’t one I recognize. I look at Owen’s window, and his light is now off, and I think maybe—just…maybe?

“Hello?” I answer, my thumbnail flying to the edge of my teeth, a bad habit to calm my nerves that I’ve been doing for as long as I can remember.

“Hey,” Owen says, his voice breathy and timid. “Sorry. I probably scared you again.”

“No, no!” I respond quickly, and probably a little too excitedly. “I just didn’t recognize the number, and most of my calls lately have been from unwelcomed callers.”

“Ah, yeah. I get that,” he says, and I can actually hear him settle into his covers. He’s in bed. I’m talking to him, and he’s lying down, probably without a shirt on. My thumbnail flies right back to the place between my teeth.

“Did you…need something?” I ask, sliding down a little lower by the window, low enough to gaze through it and attempt to see Owen in the darkness.

“Well, I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s weird. I don’t know if you ever get this feeling, but…I feel like somebody’s watching me,” he says, and I sink completely to the floor, my hand fast to cover my face.

Oh god!

Oh god, oh god, oh god!

“Kensi?” he asks, and I swallow hard.

“Uh huh?” I say, my voice nowhere near as loud as it was seconds ago.

“Look up,” he says, and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, pushing myself up on my elbows until I can see through my window to his. Owen’s waving at me, a faint light over his face while he lies with his arms folded around his pillow, his hand pressing his phone to his ear.

“Oh, hey. Yeah…so…hi,” I say, scrunching my hand like a two-year-old waves. “So…your bed. It’s like…right there, huh?”

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

“Yep,” he says, and even though he’s far away, I can tell what smile he’s wearing. It’s the teasing one—the one that used to torture me when he was being mean, or when I thought he was being mean. Now, it’s just one of Owen’s many smiles—and I like this one, too, even though my stomach sinks with embarrassment over the cause.