I nod, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in my stomach. Every thoughtful gesture just reinforces that he’s committed to helping me succeed with Serena.
“I think that’s everything,” Kade says, surveying our work with satisfaction. “You’re all set for Operation Get Laid.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, too exhausted to call him out on the crude phrasing.
He stretches, arms reaching toward the ceiling, another flash of skin that I ignore. “I’m beat. Think I’ll shower and crash.”
“Yeah, me too.” Though I know, sleep will be impossible.
We part ways, neither sure how to end the evening. I take my time in the shower, letting scalding water pound against myshoulders, trying to wash away the confusing tangle of emotions that’s been building all day. It doesn’t work.
Hours later, I’m still wide awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of interaction with Kade. The casual touches that weren’t casual at all. The glances when he thought I wasn’t looking. The careful distance he maintained all evening.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out of bed and padding down the hallway in my softest t-shirt and pajama bottoms, hair still damp from the shower. I pause outside Kade’s door, hand raised to knock, then decide against it. If I hesitate, I’ll lose my nerve.
I push the door open without knocking. With his laptop balanced on his thighs, Kade sits up in bed, its blue light illuminating his bare chest. He’s wearing only sweatpants, the defined muscles of his abdomen disappearing beneath the waistband. Some anime plays on the screen, characters shouting in Japanese with English subtitles.
He looks up, surprise flashing across his face. “Hey. Everything okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep.” I hover in the doorway. “Thought maybe I could hang out here for a bit.”
Kade studies me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he shifts over, making room beside him on the bed. “Sure. Just watching Attack on Titan.”
I slide into the space he’s created, hyperaware of how close we are, our shoulders brushing. The heat of his skin radiates through my thin t-shirt. I try not to stare at his chest, at the definition of muscle that’s both familiar and foreign in this context.
“Which episode?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on the screen.
“Season four, episode six. They just revealed—” He launches into an explanation of the plot that I only half follow, too distracted by the rhythm of his voice, the way his body shifts as he gestures.
Gradually, the tension seeps out of me. Kade’s rambling commentary soothes my frayed nerves. I lean more heavily against him until my head rests against his shoulder. He doesn’t pull away, just adjusts his position to accommodate me.
“Do you think your mom saw us?” Kade asks suddenly, during a quiet moment in the show. “Last night, I mean.”
I consider this, remembering Mom’s expression when she walked in. “I don’t know. Maybe not the actual kissing, but…the candles, the wine, the way we jumped apart. She saw something.”
“It’s weird that she didn’t freak out, right? If she thought we were…you know.”
“Yeah.” I shift, turning to look at him. “Maybe the idea of us kissing is so absurd to her it didn’t even cross her mind.”
Kade chuckles. “Probably. Can’t imagine the Golden Boy going for the family fuck-up.”
The self-deprecation in his voice makes me frown. “You’re not a fuck-up.”
“Tell that to your mom’s face every time I come home past midnight.”
“She worries, that’s all.” I hesitate, then add, “David said you’ve been quiet. He’s worried, too.”
Kade stiffens beneath me. “My dad needs to mind his own business.”
“He cares about you.”
“Whatever.” Kade turns his attention back to the screen, closing the subject.
We watch in silence for a while, the only sounds the dialogue from the anime and our synchronized breathing. I’m aware of every point where our bodies connect—shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, my head resting in the crook of his neck. Then, without fully deciding to, I tilt my face up toward his, nuzzling into his neck. My lips brush against the warm skin just below his jaw. Kade’s breath catches.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice tight.
“Need more practice,” I murmur the paper-thin excuse against his skin.
