All Chapters of The Rogue Next Door: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Logan I should walk away from the window. Seriously. I should’ve walked away five minutes ago. Maybe ten. Instead, I’m still standing here like an idiot, staring through the gap in the curtains while the rest of the house sleeps. Or at least tries to. Down below, Maya is sitting beside Cole on the porch steps. Close enough that there’s barely any space between them. Close enough that I don’t need to hear the conversation to understand what’s happening. And that’s the problem. I understand exactly what’s happening. The realization settles heavily in my chest as I watch her laugh at something he says. It’s not a big laugh. Not one of those dramatic, head-thrown-back moments people notice across a room. It’s small. Private. The kind of laugh you give someone when you’re comfortable with them. When you’ve stopped guarding yourself. When you’ve stopped pretending you don’t care. Cole says something else. Maya ducks her head, smiling. And that’s when it hits me. Not lik

Maya I should be studying. That would be the responsible thing to do. The normal thing. The thing a sane person would do when she has an Ethics paper hanging over her head like an academic thundercloud. Instead, I am sitting at the kitchen table staring at a text message Cole sent twenty minutes ago like it personally attacked my ability to function. Cole: Be ready at 7. That’s it. No explanation. No details. No “hey, how are you?” Just— Be ready at 7. Which is extremely Cole. Direct. Annoying. Somehow attractive. I groan and drop my forehead onto the table. Unfortunately, Bree chooses that exact moment to walk into the kitchen holding a bowl of cereal. “You look stressed.” “I am stressed.” She sits across from me. “School stressed or hot-athlete stressed?” I lift my head enough to glare at her. “That’s not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” The problem is, it is a little funny. Which makes me more annoyed. Bree immediately spots my phone. “Oh my God.” “What?

Maya I should not be this aware of the fact that he’s holding my hand. Seriously. There has to be something medically wrong with me at this point. We’re just walking through a parking lot. People do that every day. They hold hands. They go on dates. They manage to function like normal human beings. Meanwhile, I’m standing here noticing every tiny shift of Cole’s fingers against mine like my brain has decided to make it the most important event of the century. It’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. And yet every time his thumb brushes lightly against my hand, my stomach does another stupid little flip. The night air is cool as we step out of the diner. Most of the parking lot is empty now, the neon sign buzzing softly above us while distant headlights pass on the highway beyond the trees. Everything feels quieter than it did earlier. Calmer. Maybe it’s because there aren’t any crowds here. No gossip. No whispers. No girls staring at me like I’ve committed some kind of so

Cole I’m going to lose my mind over this girl. That’s the only coherent thought in my head as Maya walks beside me across campus after the Savannah disaster. Because she’s quiet. Way too quiet. And I’ve learned enough about Maya by now to know that silence doesn’t mean she’s okay. Silence means she’s thinking. Thinking leads to overthinking. Overthinking leads to emotional catastrophes. And somehow I’ve become alarmingly good at recognizing all the stages. She keeps adjusting the strap of her bag as we walk. Her shoulders are tense. Her gaze stays focused on the sidewalk instead of the people around us. Still replaying Savannah’s words. Still giving them more power than they deserve. I hate that. I hate that girls like Savannah get to throw poison around and then walk away while Maya spends hours trying to convince herself it doesn’t matter. “You’ve been quiet for five minutes,” I say. She glances up. “Five whole minutes?” “That’s practically an eternity for you.” A

Maya By the time I get home that afternoon, my brain feels like it’s been put through a blender. A very loud blender. One filled with football players, public humiliation, fake pregnancy announcements, and entirely too many feelings. Mostly feelings. Which is honestly the worst part. I toss my bag onto the kitchen table and immediately drop into a chair. For exactly three seconds. Then my phone buzzes. My stomach flips. Because apparently I’ve become one of those girls now. The girls who know exactly who’s texting before they even look. I hate that for me. I really do. Except not enough to stop checking. Cole: Coach spent twenty minutes talking about discipline. The irony is unbelievable. A laugh escapes before I can stop it. I type back immediately. Me: Did you survive? The reply comes almost instantly. Cole: Physically. Emotionally remains unclear. God. I am so screwed. “Yep.” I nearly throw my phone across the room. Bree stands in the kitchen doorway ho