Page 62 of Puck Fest
“I know. But when it’s just us...” He squeezes my hand and brings it to his lips, making sparks dance over my skin. “When it’s just us, you don’t have to be that person.”
My chest tightens. “I don’t know how to be any other person.”
“Then I’ll teach you.”
He leans in to kiss me, and it’s softer than last night. Less desperate. Like we have time now. Like this isn’t going to disappear the second we leave this room.
When we break apart, reality starts to creep back in.
“You need to leave,” I say. “Before my neighbors see that your truck was parked in the driveway all night.”
“Worried about your reputation?”
“Worried about someone recognizing you and putting two and two together.”
He glances at the clock. “It’s six-thirty on a Sunday morning. I think it’s safe to say your neighbors are still asleep.”
“Still. We need to be careful.”
“Right. Careful.” He gets out of bed, starts grabbing his clothes from the various spots we threw them last night. I watch him dress, trying not to think about how much I want to pull him back into bed.
“When will I see you again?” he asks.
“At the facility. Tomorrow.”
“I mean like this. Just us.”
“I don’t know.” I bring a hand to the back of my neck and squeeze the stress knot lodged there. “We have to be smart about it.”
He pulls on his shirt and looks at me. “You’re already planning how to keep your distance, aren’t you?”
“I’m planning how to keep us both employed.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It is when your career depends on maintaining professional boundaries.”
He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed. “Noah. Last night wasn’t a mistake. Don’t turn it into one by overthinking everything.”
“I’m not overthinking. I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being scared.”
“I’m being smart. There’s a difference.”
He kisses me again, and I hate how easily I melt into it. How quickly my carefully constructed arguments evaporate once his mouth is on mine.
“Text me later,” he says when we break apart. “Let me know you’re not spiraling.”
“I don’t spiral.”
“You absolutely spiral. But I like you anyway.”
He leaves, and I’m alone in my bedroom with rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of his cologne and the uncomfortable awareness that everything just changed.
And at this point, I can’t say for sure if it’s for the better.
I shower, make coffee, and try to focus on work emails. But my mind keeps drifting back to last night. To the way he looked at me when I finally let him see me. To the way it felt to stop fighting what I’ve been feeling for weeks.
