Chapter 5
KACEN
The house smells like rosemary and roasted something with a hint of vanilla that’s probably coming from whatever candle she lit in the hallway.
I shouldn’t be nervous. It’s just dinner.
We’ve eaten together before, talked more than we probably should’ve, exchanged barbs and truths, and everything in between.
But this feels different. Because tonight she invited me. Her house, her cooking, her terms.
I shift the six-pack and the folder of Friendsgiving notes in my hand as I knock, even though she said the door would be open. Old habits, maybe. Or maybe it’s that weird pressure in my chest again. The one I can’t name but keeps showing up around her.
She calls from inside. “It’s open.”
Pushing the door open, I step into her world again. Everything is warm and soft and quiet in the way only her house can be.
“You cook now?” I tease as I set the folder of notes on the table.
She shoots me a look. “I’ve always cooked. You just never stuck around long enough to find out.”
I wince, but she doesn’t say it with venom. Just fact.
“Smells good in here,” I say, my voice too low.
Natalie is in the kitchen, barefoot and dressed down in jeans and a faded sweatshirt that makes her look somehow younger and more like herself than I’ve ever seen. Her hair’s pulled back in one of those loose knots, a few strands falling around her face. She glances up and offers a crooked smile.
“Don’t let the smell fool you. I almost burned the carrots.”
I grin, stepping farther in. “I like my vegetables with a little trauma.”
“Perfect. Then you’ll love dinner.”
I follow her into the kitchen, setting the beer on the counter next to a pan of roasted chicken and a bowl of mashed potatoes that look like they were whipped with some kind of magic.
She moves, pretending it’s no big deal, but I can tell she’s overthinking it, the same way I am.
Her hands keep smoothing the edge of a dish towel she doesn’t need.
“You want help setting the table?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Sure. Plates are in the cabinet to your right.”
Dinner is better than it has any right to be.
We eat across from each other, not touching the plans, not rushing through conversation.
She tells me about a kitchen fire from last winter and how she replaced the entire stovetop herself.
I tell her about the time Kingston tried to grill on the balcony in Chicago and set off four alarms. She tells me she’s been testing new cookie recipes and asks if I still hate white chocolate.
“Not if you’re the one baking it,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes flick up at that, something unreadable in them, but she doesn’t push it.
After dinner, we move to the couch with the big binder between us. The seating chart is still a nightmare, and I end up redrawing half of it just to make space between two warring neighbors. Natalie watches me work with a small smile on her face.
“You always this good with people?” she asks.
“Only when I’m trying to avoid getting yelled at by Ruby.”
“Can I ask you something?” she asks quietly.
“Always.”
She hesitates, eyes on the paper. “Why were you so mean to me back then?”
My heart stumbles. I set the pen down and lean back, trying to find the words that won’t sound like excuses. I’ve thought this more times than I can count, and while my instinct is to just joke my way out of this, she deserves more.
“Because I was hurting,” I say slowly. “Because I was angry and stupid and scared.”
Her jaw tightens. She nods, but I see the steel behind her eyes.
“You called me names,” she says. “Laughed when other people did too. And not just once. You made sure I knew I didn’t belong. Every damn day.”
I look at her. Really look. And the weight of what I did settles heavier than it ever has before.
“I know,” I say. “I think about it more than you probably believe. I think about how I came back to town angry at my dad for everything he did to my mom. How I looked at you and saw the part of my life I couldn’t control.
And instead of being decent, I turned into someone I hate.
I tried to punish you because I blamed your mom for breaking up my family, for my mom being taken away, for Kingston ending up in jail. ”
She doesn’t look away.
“You didn’t deserve that. That blame was squarely on my dad, and I’ve let him know it many times.
You were smart and kind and always trying to disappear into yourself, and I made it worse.
And I will never forgive myself for it. I don’t want you to either.
But I do want you to know I was wrong. And I’m sorry. ”
Silence stretches between us, a breath caught in the air.
She looks at me with something unreadable in her eyes. “Do you know how long I carried it? How many times I looked in the mirror and thought, maybe if I were smaller, you wouldn’t have hated me so much?”
My stomach twists.
“You didn’t deserve that,” I say again, because it’s the only thing that feels true. “None of this was about you. It was always about me. I was too much of a coward to admit I was angry at the wrong person.”
Her voice is low. “You blamed me for your parents splitting up.”
“Yeah.” I swallow hard. “I did. My dad cheated with your mom. It led to us moving to Chicago, to my mom getting hooked on drugs, to me falling into the wrong crowd, and to Kingston ending up in jail to save me. I was taken from Mom and placed back here with Dad. And in my head, that turned into this stupid, warped narrative that somehow it was your fault. Because you were there. Because you smiled. Because I didn’t know what to do with the mess inside me.
Then I hated myself for how much I liked you, how much I wanted you. ”
Her lips part slightly, like she wants to say something but doesn’t trust her voice.
“Kingston told me once that real men own their mistakes,” I say. “He said, it’s not enough to feel bad. You have to be better. You have to try again. So I’m trying.”
She nods slowly. “You’re not the boy I knew.”
“Good. I hated that kid.”
I reach first.
It’s my fingers brushing hers on the couch cushion. Just enough to ask the question without words.
She doesn’t pull away. But looks down at our joined hands. “I believe you’re trying.”
That shouldn’t mean as much as it does. It feels like air after drowning.
Her eyes meet mine, and a current passes between us— old, aching, and new all at once.
I reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “Can I kiss you?”
She nods, and I lean in, slowly, giving her every chance to stop me.
Our lips meet, and it’s nothing like the first time. This kiss is gentle, careful. Like an apology made of skin and breath. Her fingers slide into my hair, and I wrap my arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer.
When we break apart, she keeps her forehead against mine, her breath warm on my lips.
"I hated you so much," she whispers, but her fingers are still in my hair, contradicting her words.
"I know," I say, because there's nothing else to say. No defense I can offer.
She pulls back to look at me, her eyes searching mine, trying to find something. "But I think I wanted you even then. How messed up is that?"
I stroke my thumb across her cheekbone. "Not messed up. Human."
"Human," she repeats, like she's testing the word. "Is that what this is?"
I don't know what to call it—this thing between us that feels too big for my chest, too fragile to name. "This is... whatever you want it to be."
She shifts, pulling her legs up underneath her on the couch. The binder slides to the floor, forgotten. "What if I don't know what I want?"
"Then we figure it out," I say. "No rush."
Natalie looks at me for a long moment, then leans in and kisses me again, harder this time. There's something different in it—a question, maybe. Or an answer I'm not quite ready to hear.
When she pulls back, her eyes are darker. "I think I know exactly what I want right now."
My throat goes dry. "Yeah?"
She nods once, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. Before I can process what's happening, she's moving, swinging her leg over mine until she's straddling me on the couch. The sudden weight of her, warm and solid against me, knocks the air from my lungs.
"Nat," I breathe out, my hands automatically finding her hips.
She rocks against me, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving mine. The friction sends sparks shooting up my spine, and I grip her tighter.
"Is this okay?" she whispers, even as she grinds down harder.
"How about this?" she asks, her voice a whisper as she grinds down again.
"God, yes," I breathe, my hands finding her hips, guiding her movements. "More than okay."
Her eyes darken as she leans in close to my ear. "I want more," she whispers, her breath hot against my skin.
I don't hesitate. My hands find the hem of her sweatshirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin underneath.
I slide my palms up her sides, feeling her shiver against me as I pull the fabric up and over her head.
Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and for a moment, I just look at her—the soft curves, the simple black bra against her skin, the flush spreading across her chest.
"Your turn," she says, tugging at my shirt.
I pull it off in one quick motion, tossing it somewhere behind the couch.
The air between us feels electric as she runs her hands over my chest, tracing the lines of my tattoo with curious fingers.
I reach behind her, finding the clasp of her bra.
She nods, and I unhook it, sliding the straps down her arms.
When it falls away, I can't breathe for a second. She's beautiful. All soft skin and goosebumps in the dim light of her living room.
I can't help but dip my head to her breast, my mouth finding her nipple. I suck gently at first, then harder as she gasps above me, her back arching. My tongue circles the sensitive peak, and I feel her hands grip my shoulders tighter, her nails digging into my skin.
"More," she breathes, her hips rocking against mine with more urgency.
I slide my hand down her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her leggings.
She's so warm, so wet already, and when I find her clit, she lets out a sound that makes my entire body tighten with need.
I switch to her other breast, lavishing attention on her nipple as my fingers work between her legs, finding a rhythm that has her grinding down against my hand.
"Right there," she whispers, her voice breaking as I curl my fingers inside her. "Don't stop."
I have no intention of stopping. Not when she's making those little breathy sounds, not when her body is trembling against mine. I suck harder on her nipple, feeling it harden further against my tongue as my fingers move faster, deeper.
She tightens around my fingers, her breathing becoming more ragged with each stroke. I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her gasp. Her hips move desperately against my hand, chasing release.
"Let go," I whisper against her breast. "I've got you."
When she comes, it's with my name on her lips—not a shout, but a broken whisper that feels more intimate than anything I've ever heard.
Her body tenses, thighs clamping around my hand as she shudders through her orgasm.
I keep my fingers moving, gentler now, drawing out every tremor until she collapses against me, her forehead dropping to my shoulder.
I hold her there, one hand still inside her legging, the other wrapped around her back, feeling her heart hammer against my chest. For a moment, we just breathe together, her body occasionally shivering with aftershocks.
"That was..." she starts, then laughs softly against my neck.
"Yeah," I agree, pressing a kiss to her temple. I slowly withdraw my hand, and she makes a small sound at the loss.
She shifts against me, her eyes dark and determined. "I want you," she says, her voice husky. "All of you."
My heart hammers against my ribs as she stands, unbuttoning her leggings and sliding them down her legs in one fluid motion.
I follow her lead, standing to shed my own pants, my eyes never leaving hers.
There's something powerful in the way she watches me, unashamed of her nearly naked body, waiting.
"Condom?" she asks.
I freeze. Shit!