Chapter 5 #2
Aleksandr doesn't say anything. Just leans there, arms crossed, storm-grey eyes fixed on me with unreadable intensity. Like he caught me stealing the family jewels instead of raiding the fridge for sandwich ingredients.
"I—uh—needed a snack," I manage, voice higher than normal.
He doesn't blink.
I consider throwing myself into the fridge.
Instead, I smile awkwardly and shove the brie a little further away from the edge of the counter, and stare at the raspberry jam I had grabbed, questioning what type of sandwich I was making.
I lose every ounce of confidence I walked in with. It slips through me like sand through open fingers, leaving behind only the dull throb of embarrassment.
"O-kay… I'm going to head back up to Nadia," I say, forcing a smile that feels wrong on my face. "I didn't even want a sandwich, you know Nadia and I had pizza for lunch so I'm actually like so full, so I'm just going to go."
My voice trails off, as I move away from the catastrophe of food in front of me and start to walk down the hall away from him and all of the nerves growing in my chest.
"So you take all the food out of my fridge and you're not going to put it away?" he murmurs, his voice sounds even and plain like he can't muster up the humor that should be there.
I stop in my tracks, running my hand through my hair, and turning back to the mess of food on the counter. "You're so right. I mean if I make the mess I should-"
All my breath leaves my body once he takes a step forward and starts to pick up the container of brie on the counter. His strides are lazy and long. I watch the way his body moves across the room towards the fridge, that just so happens to be behind me.
Every nerve in my body shakes, and I want desperately to crawl back upstairs with my tail between my legs.
I lean forward and stack the deli meats to put away as I curse myself for these events, because why would he be here now? Why would he come to the kitchen mid freak out? And why am I so freaking cold right now?
I wish I was wearing an oversize t-shirt right now, and not my rainbow polka dot tank, bright yellow sleep shorts and scrunchy socks. I wish I had thought about how exposed I would feel with his eyes on me, and with his body being the only source of heat in the room.
I hear the fridge open behind me, the soft suction pop of the seal releasing. I don't think much of it until I turn around—deli meats in hand—and nearly choke.
Aleksandr is standing there like sin made flesh, hunched slightly, staring straight at me.
One arm rests against the fridge door, and the other hand is stuffed into the front pocket of his grey school slacks, which—unfortunately for my current sense of self-preservation—fit him like they were stitched onto his body by someone with very specific intentions and an ungodly level of inseaming around his… crown jewels.
My mouth is drier than the Sahara.
"Meat?"
I clear my throat and shake my head. "What?"
"Hand me the meat," he repeats, taking the hand out of his pocket and pointing at me. "In your hand."
"Right…this meat," I blow out a raspberry and pass the meat to him.
His finger grazes the side of my hands, and I can feel my skin erupt in flames, turning back around to the other ingredients on the table, of which are jam, and for some reason spotted bananas.
I swallow, try to clear the crack in my throat, and force my voice back to something resembling normal. "Why are you sneaking around? Seems a little creepy—"
"Nadia said you wanted to ask me something."
Goddamn her.
I hate that she knows me this well. Hate that she was right—that I'd chicken out the moment I felt even a flicker of doubt.
My face heats instantly, red rising to my cheeks like a warning flare. I shift until my back hits the fridge, cold metal grounding me as I fumble for words.
"Oh… uh… yeah. It's nothing." I blindly hand back the bananas and the last container of jam, avoiding his touch as much as I can.
"Nadia said it was something," he responds, the tone he has verges on humored and a little bored, but I just stay looking at the empty counter in front of me. "And Nadia doesn't lie."
I clear my throat and wish for whatever deity in the sky to kill me. To snatch my soul up like a yoyo and save me from whatever second hell this is.
After a few seconds, I hear him close the fridge. I turn around, and he's leaning against the fridge, arms crossed. The dim light of the kitchen makes him look like some fallen viking angel, all shadows and whispered secrets.
I hold my breath, and push my hair behind my ears, before awkwardly folding my arms under my breasts and leaning across from him against the counter.
The shadows cover his eyes, but I watch his eyelashes flutter down and then up again, leaving a fiery path across my flesh.
This is some cruel punishment I have created for myself.
"Thanks for helping me clean. I should get back--"
"Ask the question, Lily." He commands; that voice of his rasps and grinds against my ears in a way that makes me want to purr like a cat.
I look down at the scrunchy socks around my ankles. "I did have something to ask. Um…" I laugh a little, nervously. "This is stupid, and I solved it. It was about Mr.Triles chem exam next week, because you're like a STEM genius and I wanted to--"
"Lily," he says it so gently I fear my weak heart won't be able to survive.
"The dance," I choke out, looking down at how he crossed his legs at the ankle and balances himself on the heels of his feet. "You know Sadie Hawkins. Women ask out men, a feminism thing that everyone is doing. I am doing it to you."
He snorts, and the sound makes my skin prickle.
Embarrassment floods my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to shake it off, literally shaking my hands out in front of me like that'll reset my brain.
"I'm not doing you," I blurt, too loud, too fast. "I mean—I'm not asking you to do me. I'm asking you to do it with me. Not it—God, the dance. Do the dance with me. I mean—go with me. To the dance. Like, as a person. Who goes places. With another person."
I trail off because I've officially lost the ability to form coherent sentences, and also because my shaking palms have just touched what could only be described as a solid brick wall in human form.
Oh my god, he's ripped.
I mean I knew he was ripped. I've caught him leaving the bathroom in just a towel during Nadia's and my weekly sleepovers too many times to count, but touching a guy with a six pack is completely different than seeing one.
I think I am about to faint, or puke, or puke then faint.
I crack my eyes open—and immediately regret it.
Aleksandr is close. Too close. I can't even bring myself to make eye contact with him so I stare at my hands touching his chest, because I can't physically look anywhere else.
"I don't dance, Lily," he says.
Against my better judgement I look up into the storm of his eyes, as I whisper, "What?"
He shifts forward, crowding me gently—carefully—until my hips bump against the edge of the kitchen island. One arm slides to brace beside me, his hand pressing flat to the marble countertop. The other follows, boxing me in completely.
He doesn't touch me, not really, but the proximity is dizzying. There's less than a breath between us now. I can't run. I can't breathe.
He's tall. So much taller than me. Broad, in a way that makes me feel suddenly delicate—smaller than I ever feel, boxed in between cool stone and warm, carved muscle.
I move my hands from his chest and press my hands against the edge of the counter behind me to keep from grabbing onto him like some Victorian damsel with the vapors.
"I don't go to school dances."
"Because you don't dance."
His eyes don't leave mine. "Exactly."
I try to play it cool. I try to lean back casually, but there's no room. My lower back presses against the counter, and all that's behind me is marble and shame.
I nod, like that makes perfect sense. Except it doesn't. None of this does.
"You could still come," I say, my breath catching as his fingers flex against the edge. "Even if you just stand in the corner and look like you're judging everyone."
"You should go with someone who actually dances," he says, and as he speaks, his hand shifts slightly—closer to my hip. Not touching. But close enough that I suck in a breath and look at the thin sliver of space between us, it's less than an inch.
I could move forward and let our hips touch. He could draw me in closer, or push me on top of the counter and—wow stop it, this guy just said no to going to the dance, so this is so not happening.
"Why?"
He exhales slowly through his nose. I feel it more than hear it. His gaze flickers down to my lips before settling on my eyes again.
"Because that's what you deserve."
That makes my stomach flip. "Deserve?" I ask, trying to hold steady. "What do you know about what I deserve?"
His jaw tightens. He leans in just a little more, and now there's barely any space between us. I can feel every inch of him without a single point of contact. My breath shortens, chest brushing his ever so slightly with each inhale.
"You're sunny," he says, voice just above a whisper. "You're warm. Bright. You make people laugh even when they don't want to."
I stare at him, lips parted.
"You're adorable," he adds.
My heart stutters. "You think I'm adorable?"
He swallows, gaze dark. "I think you're too good for me. You should go to the dance with someone who actually dances, someone who's going to see how good you are and make it their life mission to keep you good."
Keep me good?
The words catch on the edge of something electric in my chest. My eyes flicker down to his mouth, to the soft pink curve of his lower lip, just slightly parted.
"You won't keep me good?"
He breathes out hard through his nose, jaw tight. "Not with the way you look at me."