She squeals, backing away as I snatch the can from her. Chaos follows. Laughter fills the kitchen, both of us dodging, slipping, trying not to drop bowls while whipped cream ends up everywhere except where it belongs.
At some point we end up standing too close, breathless from laughing. The room goes quiet. Her smile softens. There’s a smear of whipped cream near her mouth. Without thinking, I reach up, and use my thumb to brush it away. She stills.
I slide my thumb between my lips and suck the cream off in one pull. Her breath catches softly. The world narrows. I lean in. Slow. Deliberate. Giving her time to stop me. She doesn’t.
My hand comes up, cupping her jaw, my damp thumb brushing just under her bottom lip like I’m deciding something I already know the answer to. “Still think this is a good idea?”
Her eyes flick to my mouth. “No.” But, she doesn’t move away. No hesitation, just truth. That’s all I need. I kiss her. This time is not testing. Not careful. It’s deeper the second it starts, like we both already know what this is.
Her hands come up immediately, gripping my shirt, tugging me closer instead of holding back. My other hand slides to her waist, fingers pressing in just enough to anchor her there, like I’m trying to keep control of something that’s already slipping.
She shifts into me, closing the last inch of space between us, and suddenly this isn’t the kitchen anymore. It’s not ice cream and jokes and bad days. It’s just, her. And the fact that I don’t want to stop. Her breath breaks against mine when she pulls back just enough to look at me.
“Q?” My voice is rough now, edged with something I’m barely holding in check.
Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “We should stop.”
The words are soft. But they hit harder than anything else she could have said. I don’t move right away, but neither does she. Our breaths are still tangled, her hand still fisted in my shirt, like her body hasn’t caught up to whatever her mind is thinking.
“You sure?” My voice comes out rougher than I intend.
Her eyes flick up to mine. There’s something there. Not hesitation or doubt. Something tighter, more complicated. “Yes.” A beat. “Before this turns into something we can’t walk back from.”
“Yeah.” Quieter this time. “Okay.” I step back first. Give her space, even though everything in me wants to close it again. She lets go of my shirt slowly, like it takes effort.
The air hums between us. I stay inches away. My breathing rough. Her lips parted slightly. “You’re smart, you know that?”
Her eyes widen just a little. “You think?”
“What I think is that we both feel where this is going, and neither of us is pretending we don’t. And sleeping together will solidify that.”
The words land heavy between us. My gaze flicks to her mouth again, and then I step back slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. She stays where she is, quiet, watching me.
I grab a towel from the counter, wiping whipped cream off the counter. The moment shifts, not broken, just folded away. She laughs softly, nervous energy threading through it. “You started this.”
I snort. “Pretty sure you fired first.”
She grins, tension easing. We clean up together, moving around each other carefully now, awareness lingering in the air. Every accidental touch feels louder than before. Later, sitting on the couch with empty bowls on the table, the room feels warmer somehow.
She leans back, a little more relaxed. I watch her from the corner of my eye. Something shifted tonight. I just don’t know what it means yet. I only know that when she laughs quietly at something on the screen, my chest feels full in a way I don’t know how to name. And I’m not sure how much longer that line between us is going to hold, but I know I’m ready to snap.
Chapter Twenty
Quinn
The Cover of “Rolling Stone”
Dr. Hook
The next fewdays feel normal. And completely not. Everything’s the same. Work is work. The L rattles through the city every morning. Coffee tastes like coffee. My office smells faintly like dry erase markers and old books.
But underneath it all something hums. A low, restless energy that wasn’t there before. I replay that moment in the kitchen more times than I want to admit. The laughter. The whipped cream. His hand on my face. The way he leaned in slow and deliberate like he was giving me time to decide.
And the way I stopped it. Not because I didn’t want more. God, that’s the problem. I did. I do. But sleeping with him, really going there, that changes things. It tips the scale, and I can’t afford that right now.
The apartment sits in the back of my mind like a ticking clock. A decision I haven’t made yet. A life I’m supposed to be building, that isn’t supposed to include getting tangled up with something I can’t easily walk away from. If I cross that linewith Mikey, this stops being simple. And I don’t trust myself to choose clearly if I let how I feel about him take over everything else.
So, I stopped it. Even though I still feel the imprint of his mouth like is still pressed against mine. And now? Now I’m stuck in this in-between. I know exactly what I want, and I think I know what he wants, but until I make a decision, I’m holding off on taking things to the next level.
