Unbroken Rules (Rules 3)

“You know what? Maybe bringing your boyfriend on Wednesdays isn’t such a good idea after all,” she says, picking Maika up into her arms and storming out. Thankfully, we’re so used to her unpleasant behavior, it barely affects us.

“She doesn’t mean that. You know you’re always welcome here.” My dad apologizes on her behalf, per usual. Haze nods, and I hug my Dad again, then my very uncomfortable-with-human-touch little brother. We say our goodbyes and depart from my parents’ driveway a minute later. Haze turns up the radio, resting a hand on my thigh.

“How was your day?” I intertwine our fingers.

He shifts in his seat and offers me a small smile. “It was fine.” That’s what he always says. No details, no anecdotes on his job—he stops at fine. “How was yours?” He brings our linked hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my fingers.

“Oh, you know. Same old. Went to school, babysat, fell asleep on the job, and somehow convinced my five-year-old sister to get a tattoo.”

He laughs. “Your mom is never going to forgive me for that one, is she?”

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up. She still hasn’t forgiven me for being born.”

We laugh. Then Haze stops.

“Shit. Do you realize how dark that was?”

“Wow, you’re right.”

A few seconds of silence.

We start laughing again.

Ten minutes into the drive home, I ask him, “So, have you thought about it?’” I make my best puppy eyes at him. Key word: puppy.

A smile stretches his mouth. “Stop looking at me like that. We’re not getting a dog.”

“But… But… why?” I pout. “It’d be so cute. And the landlord’s fine with it. Plus, it gets lonely at home when you work late. Kendrick’s always at Allie’s. Please, please, please.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s too much work. You have to walk it at least once a day. Then there’s the barking. We’re not getting a dog, Winter. Let it go.”

“Then how about a cat? You don’t have to walk it. It’s relatively low-maintenance. Please.”

“You know what’s not low-maintenance?” He shoots me a look at a stop sign.

“What?”

“You.”

“Ouch.” I bring a hand to my heart and dramatically wipe away nonexistent tears from my eyes. Haze scoffs. “Please, I’ll do anything,” I say as he pulls up into our apartment parking spot. He kills the engine, but we don’t get out right away.

“Anything?”

“Anything.” I smack my palms together and beg.

He doesn’t move, chewing on his lip as though he’s actually considering it.

“Nah.”

Oh my God.

“I hate you.” I climb out of the car and rush to the entrance. Haze catches up to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek. I try to dodge his lips, fake-mad at him, but he gets me anyway. We walk inside, teasing each other, wrestling in the elevator, and finally making out against our front door for five minutes.

The last four months have been a dream. The transition from dating him to living with him was surprisingly easy. Dangerously easy. He practically became an extension of my arm. Sure, we annoy each other. We get into silly arguments like this one—arguments that usually end in intense makeup sex—but overall, it’s been perfect. We’ve been happy: no fights, no problems, no street fighters or crazy brother, just genuine happiness.

Still, it feels like I’m waiting for hell to come pouring down on us. For something to go wrong and blow my heart into a billion pieces. And that dream? The one where I cried my eyes out and begged him to stay? It’s not helping my nerves.

I love him. More than I thought possible.