He blocks the doorway, keeping his friends out of the conversation, brown eyes soft and pleading. “I want you to stay.” “I know.” “But you won’t? Even if they left?” Shaking my head, I tell him no. I expect an argument, him pushing me to do something I’m not ready to do, but instead, he relents. “Can I at least drive you home?” A smile ticks on my lips. “I’ve got it from here.” “All right.” He exhales a defeated sigh before the typically happy Isaiah comes back. “And what about me?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning into the doorway. “Did I have a good game tonight?” The insinuation in
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