She rolls her eyes, slicing the lime. “You gave me emotional damage all summer, Hawkins.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, there's no edge. Just Delilah.
And something's different tonight.
She's less guarded. Still wary, still Delilah, but... the walls aren't quite as high. And I can't stop noticing shit I shouldn't.
The way she bites her bottom lip when she's focused. The clean, warm scent of her—vanilla and almond and something that's just her. The fact that her sleeve keeps slipping down her arm, and my brain, my stupid fucking brain, keeps imagining what she'd look like in one of my hoodies.
Or nothing at all.
Focus,dipshit, I remind myself, turning back to the pan before I burn the whole house down.
“Hey, Delilah,” Freddie calls a bit later, nodding toward the back door. “Mind if I check out the bike while we wait for food?”
Delilah shrugs, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “Sure, but I'm telling you now, it's probably beyond saving. Please don't stress about it.”
“We'll see,” he says, already heading outside.
Alex follows him, already launching into another talk about lithium batteries and the ethics of sustainable rubber or whatever the hell she's been reading this week.
From the living room, Ethan suddenly perks up. “Wait. Did he just say Hey Delilah? Like the song?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he starts belting out the first lines of that old Plain White T's song at top volume, dramatically serenading her from across the room.
Tara giggles, glancing at Delilah. “Do you get that a lot?”
“All the time,” Delilah says with a long-suffering sigh. “Every new semester, every new introduction. It's like people think they're the first ones to ever make the connection.”
Ethan is still wailing the chorus from the couch, eyes closed, fully committed to his impromptu performance. Everyone's ignoring him, which only makes him sing louder.
Tara's setting out drinks and somehow forcing Alfie intohelping with placemats—placemats, which I'm pretty damn sure we don't even own. Where did she get those? Is everyone putting in extra effort because Delilah's here?
Kind of sweet, actually. But I'd rather die than admit how much it means to see my friends embracing her.
And then Delilah's back at my side, reaching past me to grab the stack of warm tortillas. Our arms brush—barely a touch—but it's enough to send a jolt of electricity straight through me like I just stuck my finger in a socket. My skin burns where she touched me, and I have to stifle a groan. This is fucking torture.
She glances up and catches me watching her. Her pupils are dilated, a flush high on her cheeks. She felt it too. Iknowshe did.
I grin, cocky and casual, trying to play it cool when I'm half-hard in my jeans just from a goddamn arm brush. “You good, Mittens?”
Her eyes narrow. “I will stab you with this lime knife.”
“Kinky,” I shoot back.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And for half a second, everything else in the room fades. Alfie and Tara are busy whispering to each other over the dining table.
The kitchen’s small. She’s close. Too close. Her hip brushes mine as she reaches for the cilantro, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
Our eyes lock.
For once, she doesn’t look away.
Her fingers linger near mine on the cutting board, just shy of touching. There's a heartbeat—maybe two—where I think she's going to lean in. Or maybe I will. My body is a livewire, every nerve ending firing at once, begging me to close the distance, to pin her against the counter, to find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
“Well?”
Ethan’s voice explodes through the room like a bomb, and we both flinch. He stumbles into the kitchen, sweaty and beaming from his Broadway audition for one.
“What did you guys think? Grammy-worthy, right?”
