9. Comfy
Chapter 9
Comfy
Kolby
Her bed smells like her—that perfect blend of lavender that seems to calm me and whatever else is there. Yesterday, it was lemon. Today, like towels from the dryer.
Her sheets are the kind you wanna sink into, not hotel-crisp. But the homey kind—comfy. I sink into them deeper, one arm behind my head, eyes tracking the way the ceiling curves with the silo walls.
It’s quiet, except for the hum of the bathroom fan and the faint sound of running water behind the half-closed door. My body’s loose, heavy. There’s a hum in my blood that hasn’t settled yet. The kind that only shows up when someone’s got their mouth on you with purpose, like they’re doing it to make a point.
And Lo? Purposeful or not, she made a point.
The door creaks open. She steps out, barefoot, long, dark waves hanging over one shoulder, mouth still wet from rinsing me out.
My stomach tenses in that low, reactive way, not hunger, not need exactly, just … awe. And maybe disbelief
She wipes her hands on a towel and asks, “What?”
I shake my head slightly, unwilling to say the truth, that I can’t believe I’m looking at her like this after fantasizing about this moment several times … all in the shower.
“You’re awfully quiet.”
“Trying to remember how to breathe,” I say, voice rough.
She smirks. “Good.”
She tosses the towel and crawls onto the bed. Not mine—hers—but I’m hoping she’ll let me stay for a bit.
“Need to give you yours.” I roll to my side.
“I took mine,” she says, pursing her lips, hiding a smile.
I rub my thumb across her lower lip. “That wasn’t taking; that was giving. V ery giving .”
She bristles a bit. She likes compliments.
“Anyone ever tell you that you give great head?”
“Nope.” She smiles up at the ceiling, and I chuckle. She looks at me and asks, “So, it was bad?”
The way she asks rubs me the wrong way. “Who the hell put that idea in your head?”
“You laughed. I assumed?—”
This pisses me off even more. “Why would you assume?”
“Oh … em … G, let it go.” She rolls to her side, giving me her back, and I don’t like that, not one bit.
“Just got the life sucked out of me by Lauren fucking Brooks, and she isn’t looking at me. Didn’t expect the first ever to happen. Glad—real glad—it did. Then I lay here, unable to move, because I’m more relaxed than I have been in years, even while listening to the most fucked up playlist I’ve ever heard. Now you’ve got your back to me? Nah, that doesn’t work.”
The song changes to something even more f’ed—“I Will Survive.”
Her body shakes.
“See? Even you can’t deny this playlist makes no sense.”
She still doesn’t move.
“I can’t just leave like last night. Even if I slip out of here, head through Narnia, I’ll be here in the morning.”
She sighs exaggeratedly. “I was embarrassed when you laughed, because that was, uh …” She exhales. “No one ever told me I was bad because …” She stops again, and it hits me.
“You’ve never given head before?” When she doesn’t reply, I flop to my back. “It would be wrong to give you a fist-bump, right?”
She lies on her back and holds out her fist. “I’ll take it.”
I tap her first and keep mine up. “I should get one, too, since it was my dick.”
She laughs quietly, taps it again, then clears her throat. “So, do you need to go see if your phone’s charged?”
“Wasn’t even thinking about my phone. Too busy trying to figure out how I’m already hard again.”
She rolls to her side and props her head up on her elbow, eyes slowly tracking down.
“Thinking we should recreate last night. Keep the orgasm and?—”
“Orgasms—plural.” She holds out her fist, and hell yeah, I tap it.
“Plural and no awkward exit.”
“Or hiding in the back of a Jeep.”
“Or losing my phone.”
I lean in to kiss her, and she leans back.
“Do you have a condom?”
This surprises me, but then I realize, “The belly button thing, that was a misfire.” But seriously cool.
“It’s just safer if you use one. I trust the BBT method more, but I didn’t get a chance to take my temperature this morning, and I’m not always regular.”
“The BB what?” I ask.
“BBT is a natural birth control method based on basal body temperature. We track our resting body temp before we even get out of bed to identify ovulation, since BBT slightly rises?—”
“Natural, as in, unprotected.”
“It’s not unprotected.” Her brow furrows. “It’s science and knowing your body.”
I look down as my dick literally retreats.
She notices, rolls her eyes, and gives me her back again. “Since we’re already sliding downhill again,” she says, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, “and you’re clearly judging me?—”
“I’m not judging you.”
She sits up, sharp, her voice rising with it. “You will. You’ll gasp, you’ll ask how is that possible , you’ll act like I’ve committed a federal offense for not saying, ‘Hey, before you shove that big dick of yours in me?—’”
“I’ve just never heard of BBT,” I cut in, palms up. “That’s all. I?—”
“I was the holder of the oldest V-card in Blue Valley.” She whispers. “Practically a damn relic … until last night.”
I freeze. And yeah, I do every single thing she said I would. Just on the inside.
My breath catches. My brain stutters. My stomach drops straight through the floorboards.
She cocks her head, waiting for the overreaction. But I don’t give it to her. Not because she’s wrong, but because, suddenly, nothing about this feels casual anymore. Not her mouth. Not her bed. Not the fact that I’ve been walking around like I earned last night when really? She gave it to me. And not because it doesn’t hit me like a goddamn freight train—it has. It’s still hitting.
She continues staring at me. Sitting here in nothing but a flannel, legs folded, hair messy, eyes blazing, like she’s daring me to be the thing that confirms her worst fear. That giving that part of herself was a mistake. And if I think about it, she’s not wrong, but I’m not thinking of that, of my past, of this day, or waiting on a contract, or playing against Cross in a few days. I’m staying in the present right now because nothing, not one thing I have going on right now is worse than what I have been through. And, for once, I’m going to bathe in it so I have something to remember that isn’t completely fucked.
“You thought I’d get pissed?” I finally ask, voice lower than I mean for it to be.
She shrugs one shoulder, jaw still tight. “Guys tend to have feelings about it.”
“What kind of feelings?”
She’s looking down, face behind a curtain of hair. “The kind where they pretend they’re cool, then it’s suddenly a big thing. Or they think it means something it doesn’t. Or they act like they didn’t try ridding themselves of the virgin stigma in middle school. I mean, I could have, but I’m related to half the town, and the other half feels like family or just ew. High school was no different than middle, and sports meant more than trying to decide who I felt would be cool to pluck my petals.”
I bite my lip to stop from smiling.
She lifts a shoulder and continues, “I was all about sports until I realized women in sports get screwed, and I like art just as much. I got a scholarship, played D1, but not to make the Olympics, but because I loved field hockey.” She blows a long breath upward, moving some of her hair. “D1 sport, dual major?—”
I push her hair back behind her ear so I can see her face and ask, “What did you major in?”
“Psychology and graphic design. You?”
“Kinesiology. And psych.”
Her brows lift. “That’s … surprising, even though I probably knew that but wanted to bury that you’re not just hot but smart, too.”
I chuckle, play it cool, but that felt good, real good.
“What do your parents do?” she asks.
I flinch, and I know this because she does in response.
“You don’t have to tell me, but also, wow.”
I swallow back a lump and shake my head as I lie back down. “My, uh, mom died when I was little, and my father when I was fifteen. No siblings.”
“Kolby, I?—”
“Today’s been messed up. Tonight’s been damn good. I don’t wanna go into that headspace right now. I will tell you?—”
Her hand finds mine under the blanket and squeezes it. “No, you won’t, not unless you want to and not until after the season’s over.”
I nod, ’cause yeah, that works. And if I don’t get a contract, I don’t have to deal with it.
“It was my coach who pushed me to grab everything a full ride to college had to offer. So, I did. This was a dream. Still feels like it. But I’d be happy coaching college. Hell, even high school.”
She lies down, too, facing me. “Lucas, Dad, and Alex coached high school when we were kids. Mom, Tessa, and Phoebe wanted to coach hockey, but we begged them not to—they’re brutal.”
She presses her head against my chest, and I wrap my arm tighter around her. And the storm that’s always moving in my brain? It goes quiet.
“Stay?” She yawns.
“Be glad to.”
She falls asleep first. I know by the way her breathing changes—slow, steady, safe. And for the first time in a long damn time, I don’t fight it. I let myself follow.
* * *
I lie awake, knowing I’m on borrowed time, but not wanting to move because there’s a rhythm to her breathing that’s soothing—slow, even—her fingers still tangled with mine.
I don’t want to do a damn thing but stay here and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. And, for a second, it feels like normal isn’t too far away to grab.
Until—
“Well, look at that!” Skinner’s voice blasts through the floorboards like he’s announcing for the damn NFL. “The cousins have arrived! And Mrs. Brooks, too! Gosh, I hope everyone’s dressed !”
Lo groans into my chest. “I swear to God.”
I try not to laugh. “Subtle as ever.”
She lifts her head, eyes half-lidded and annoyed. “You going down?”
“Gonna make breakfast. Pretend I stayed on schedule.”
She sighs.
I shift, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You staying put?”
“Of course I’m staying put. If I walk out of this room before ten on my day off, my mother will know I’m either sick, dead, or defiled.”
I smirk. “Definitely door number three.”
She shoves me lightly, but there’s no heat behind it.
I slide out of bed, careful not to shake the mattress too much. Then I grab my sweats and pull on the long-sleeved tee I tossed on the ground next to her hoodie last night. I glance at it, think about how she looked in it, and force myself not to steal it before I toss it to her then walk through a fucking closet.
Before I step out, I hear a click . She must have locked it.
I exit the room I’m supposed to, hurry down the stairs, hoping I have time to take a piss before the girls and Mrs. Brooks come in.
“Morning,” I mumble, adjusting my morning wood.
“Well, shit, that’s not a good sign.”
I step inside the bathroom and ask, “What’s not a good sign?”
“You didn’t use her bathroom, so you didn’t …?” He humps the air.
“Yesterday was exhausting.” It’s true. It was.
“Sucks, man. Better luck next time.”
* * *
The door opens with zero subtlety, laughter spilling in before I even see them.
Izzy’s voice cuts through first, with a tray in hand. “It smells like cinnamon and secrets in here.”
Skinner, still wearing to tight sweatpants and socks that don’t match, turns from the coffeemaker like he’s hosting a cooking show. “Welcome to The Stables: Silo Edition, where coffee is brewing, gossip is optional, and judgment is expected.”
Maggie follows Izzy in, cheeks pink from the cold, oversized scarf trailing behind her, and another huge tray in her hands. Behind them, Jade walks in with a tray as well—poised, perfect, and stunning even in her casual clothes.
She scans the room in that way a parent should. “Morning, Kolby, Skinner.”
“Morning, Mrs. Brooks,” I say, automatically straightening.
She gives me a once-over. “Sleep okay?”
Skinner chokes back a laugh that makes me want to tackle him.
“Like a rock,” I say.
Izzy’s already beelining for the coffee pot. “Did Lo die? Is she even awake?”
“She’s off today,” I offer and hold up her notebook with her house rules. “Her day off.” I set it down, realizing that didn’t make the list and I’ve fucked up already in less than a minute.
Jade smiles. “That’s my girl.”
Maggie pulls out a chair and drops into it like her legs are broken. “This place’s vibes are off. Like something bad already happened and now everyone’s pretending it didn’t.”
Skinner mumbles from behind his cup, “That’s just Kolby’s resting guilt face.”
“It’s climbing the hills like fog from the valley,” I joke.
“Is she upstairs?” Izzy asks, eyes way too sharp for this early.
“Sleeping,” I say, maybe a little too fast.
Maggie snorts. “Or hiding.”
“Both,” Skinner mutters.
Jade takes the foil off one pan. “The smell of bacon may wake her. Boys, eat.”
I busy myself with plating bacon like it’s the most complicated task on earth.
Jade shrugs her coat off and hangs it by the door. “One tray has pancakes, fresh rolls, and apple butter, and the other tray is full of scrambled eggs and fried potatoes.”
Skinner slides a pancake onto my plate and whispers, “You should eat up, Grimes. You’ve got a big day of avoiding eye contact ahead.”
I cut a piece, jaw tight, and say nothing.