All Chapters of In Love With My Best Friend’s Brother : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

JORDAN’S POV (That same night — minutes after she ran off) The parking lot was quiet now. Too quiet. The music from the showcase afterparty echoed faintly behind me, muffled laughter and clinking cups carrying on without me. But I couldn’t focus on any of it — not when she’d just run off like that, tears streaming down her face. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong. I replayed everything in my head — the kiss, the look on her face right before she answered the call, the way she’d said “What?!” like the world had just ended. My stomach twisted. She hadn’t even looked back. I leaned against the hood of my car, dragging a hand through my hair, trying to calm the storm inside me. But sitting still wasn’t an option. I needed to make sure she was okay. Before I could talk myself out of it, I slid into my car and started the engine, heading toward our neighborhood. The drive was a blur — traffic lights, street lamps, the sound of the tires on wet asphalt. All I could think about was

MILEY The cheers are still echoing in my head even though the showcase ended over an hour ago. Zach and I won — we actually won — but for some reason, I can’t feel it. Everyone kept hugging me, throwing compliments like confetti, and I smiled through all of it, but it felt… hollow. Because while everyone was celebrating, my eyes found him in the crowd. Jordan. He was standing at the back, next to Scott, clapping, that unreadable look on his face. He smiled once — just once — and I swear it felt like the whole room stopped for a heartbeat. Now the noise has died down, and I’ve escaped to the dance studio — the one place that still feels like mine. The mirrors reflect the tired version of me, hair messy, makeup smudged, medals around my neck that suddenly feel too heavy. I turn on a slow playlist and let the music fill the silence. Then I dance — or at least I try to. But my body feels disconnected from my heart. Every move reminds me of everything I’m trying not to think ab

JORDAN I shouldn’t have gone to her house. I told myself that three times on the drive over, and ten times more after sitting outside her place for nearly ten minutes. But I couldn’t shake it—this weight in my chest, the way she’d looked earlier in the studio. Like she was barely holding herself together. When she finally came out, hoodie pulled over her hair, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, I almost said screw it and told her everything. That I cared about her. That she was the only thing I could think about since the day she stumbled into my life and wrecked my balance—literally and otherwise. But she looked so tired. So damn breakable. So instead, I kept my voice calm. Gentle. The way I only ever am with her. Now I’m parked a few blocks away, engine off, hands gripping the steering wheel while I try to breathe her out of my system. It doesn’t work. It never does. I close my eyes, replaying the way she said, “Not tonight.” She’s hurting. I could see it all over her face. And th

MILEY It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It was supposed to be just a date. A distraction. Something light to pull me out of the storm in my head. But sitting across from Jordan at the small seaside diner, laughter echoing off the booth walls and the smell of salt clinging to the air, I realize it’s anything but light. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy from the wind. And for once, he’s not teasing me — not hiding behind sarcasm or smirks. He’s… warm. We’d spent the whole afternoon walking along the boardwalk, sharing fries, arguing about what the best milkshake flavor was. He picked chocolate. I said strawberry. He told me I had terrible taste. I called him a snob. He laughed. I laughed. And somehow, without meaning to, our fingers brushed and stayed that way — tangled, easy, terrifyingly natural. Now, as the sun dips behind the ocean and the neon diner lights flicker on, I can’t stop looking at him. “What?” he asks, catching me staring. “Do

JORDAN I’ve done a lot of dumb things in my life. Picking fights, pushing people away, pretending not to care. But what I was about to do tonight wasn’t one of them. I wanted to do something for her — something that didn’t come from guilt or pride or competition. Just… her. The dance studio was empty after hours, silent except for the soft hum of the AC and the faint smell of polish from the wooden floor. I’d borrowed the keys from Ms. Grayson earlier with some excuse about “extra rehearsal time.” She gave me that suspicious look teachers give when they know you’re up to something, but still tossed me the keys anyway. Now, I stood in the center of the room, adjusting the small projector I’d brought from home. I’d connected it to a playlist I made — the songs we always argued about, danced to, laughed over. When the lights dimmed, the studio filled with soft golden light, warm and nostalgic. It wasn’t perfect, but it felt right. I sent her a text. Jordan: Meet me at the studio.