“It was spot-on.” Laughing, I grab another plate from the counter. “The hair thing and everything.”
“I do not do a hair thing.”
“You absolutely do a hair thing,” I say, mimicking the way he runs his hand through his hair when he’s stressed.
He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch at the corners.
“At least I don’t twirl my hair when I’m thinking hard, like someone I could mention.”
“I don’t—” I stop, catching myself mid-twirl. “Ok, fine. Touché.”
We continue passing forks, stacking plates, and trading glass after glass, and every time our hands make contact, it feels like the air shifts, like we’re caught in some kind of slow-burn gravitational pull.
It’s ridiculous. We’re doing dishes. But his hands are somuch bigger than mine, rough in all the right places, and unnecessarily gentle with every single glass. I reach for the silverware tray at the same time he does, and our fingers tangle. For a second, neither of us moves.
The moment stretches. My pulse kicks up. I look at his hand around mine, then up at his face and find him already watching me. The apartment is silent.
Suddenly, I can’t remember how we got from “temporary insanity” in Vegas to this quiet domestic dance that somehow feels comfortable.
“Austin believes this is real,” I blurt out.
Lucas pauses, dish towel in hand. “I think we’ve managed to convince all of our friends.”
“We’ve gotten good at this.” I lean against the counter, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing.
“Too good,” he agrees, his voice lower.
“All those touches, the inside jokes.” I should step back. I should make a joke, break this tension, retreat to my room. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly forward. “Lucas,” I whisper, not sure if it’s a question or a warning.
His gaze drops to my lips and returns to my eyes. “For the documentary,” he says, his voice rough. “We should probably practice. To make it look natural.”
“Right,” I agree too quickly. “Practice. For authenticity.”
He cups my face with one hand, and I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. Or maybe that’s me, trembling at his touch. His thumb brushes my cheek, and my eyes flutter closed.
“Just for the cameras,” I whisper.
“Just for the cameras,” he echoes, and then his lips are on mine.
Unlike our frantic kiss in Vegas or our performative pecks for the documentary, this is slow, deliberate. His lips are soft but insistent, and I find myself responding with an intensity that should alarm me. My hands slide up his chest to his shoulders, and his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer.
He tastes like the chocolate dessert we served, the expensive bourbon Grant brought, and something else entirely that’s just…Lucas. My mind goes blissfully blank, with all the complications and consequences fading into background noise, as he deepens the kiss.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily. His pupils are dilated, and his hair is wrecked from where my fingers have been. I must look equally affected because something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes.
Reality crashes back, cold and sobering. I step back, breaking his hold.
“That should look convincing enough,” I say, my voice only slightly unsteady. “Good practice.”
A series of emotions crosses his face, too quickly to interpret, before he settles on a neutral expression. “Definitely convincing.”
“I should…” I gesture vaguely toward my bedroom.
He nods. “Me, too.”
“Right,” I echo. “Goodnight, Lucas.”
“Goodnight, Jess.”
