Chapter 33 #2
Then Troy's lips twitch. A small smile breaks through, followed by a barely contained snort.
I clap a hand over my mouth, trying desperately to hold in my own laughter. But it's no use—the absurdity of the situation, the two of us frozen mid-thrust like teenagers caught making out, is too much.
A giggle escapes me, and that's all it takes. Troy's shoulders start to shake, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he struggles to keep quiet.
“Shhhh,” I whisper through my own silent laughter, collapsing onto his chest.
“I can't,” he wheezes, wrapping his arms around me as we both dissolve into quiet hysterics.
“We're going to wake everyone up,” I whisper against his neck, my body still shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Worth it,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
We lay like that for a moment, our bodies still joined, the mood shifted into something equally intimate but softer. When I look up at him, his eyes are warm, crinkled at the corners, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.
“Hi,” he says quietly.
“Hi back,” I reply, feeling oddly shy despite our current position.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare back. “I like seeing you like this.”
“Naked?”
“Happy,” he corrects, though his hands slide lower to cup my ass appreciatively. “Though the naked part is definitely a bonus.”
I bite my lip, suddenly feeling vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with my lack of clothes. “I am happy. Right now. With you.”
Something flashes in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or pleasure—before he pulls me down for a kiss that's achingly tender.
“Let's finish what we started,” he whispers against my lips. “But maybe on the floor.”
I snort softly, nodding as he carefully lifts me off him and lays down a blanket beside the bed. We sink onto it together, Troy pulling me onto his lap, my back against his chest.
His strong arms wrap around my waist as he guides me, his lips pressed against my shoulder. The blanket beneath us is soft against my knees, a stark contrast to the hardwood floor. Troy's hands trace patterns on my skin, his touch feather-light, almost reverent.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper, reaching behind me to take him in my hand.
He hisses, his forehead dropping to my shoulder as I begin to stroke him, slow and deliberate. “Delilah...”
I turn in his arms, pushing him gently onto his back so I can watch his face. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lips parted, chest rising and falling with each breath. There's something powerful about seeing him like this—vulnerable, wanting, completely at my mercy.
“Let me,” I murmur, positioning myself between his legs.
My fingers wrap around his length, and I love the way his muscles tense beneath my touch. I study him, learning what makes his breath catch, what makes his hips rise to meet my hand. When I swipe my thumb over the tip, gathering the moisture there, his eyes close and a soft groan escapes him.
“You're going to have to be quiet now,” I tease, echoing his earlier warning.
His eyes flutter open, dark with desire. “Evil woman.”
I laugh softly, increasing my pace. The way he responds to me—every twitch, every barely contained sound—fuels something primal inside me. I lean down, never breaking rhythm, and plant a kiss on his hip bone, just to see what he'll do.
His reaction is immediate—a sharp intake of breath, his hand flying to tangle in my hair.
“Keep going,” he whispers, his voice strained.
I do, working him with steady, firm strokes, watching his face intently. There's something intoxicating about having this much control, about seeing him unravel beneath my touch. His breathing grows more ragged, his muscles tensing as I increase my pace.
“Delilah,” he warns, his voice barely audible. “I'm close.”
I nod, mesmerized by the way his body moves. His head falls back, exposing the strong column of his throat as he fights to stay quiet. I can feel him pulsing in my hand, right on the edge.
His eyes lock with mine for one intense moment before his release overtakes him. He bites his lip hard, his body arching as he spills over my hand and onto his stomach. I work him through it, gentling my touch as the waves subside, watching in wonder as he comes apart for me.
When he finally stills, chest heaving, I reach for the box of tissues on his nightstand. He takes them with a grateful smile, cleaning himself up with quick, efficient movements.
“Come here,” he murmurs afterward, pulling me down beside him on the blanket. I curl into his side, my head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, as if we've done this a hundred times before.
“That was fucking great,” he says, his fingers drawing lazy circles on my arm.
We lie there in comfortable silence, the music still playing softly from his phone. His breathing evens out, and I think he might be drifting off when he speaks again.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“For the hand job?” I tease, poking his side.
He laughs quietly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Well, yes, obviously. But I meant for coming here. For meeting my family. For...” he hesitates, searching for words. “For letting me be me.”
Something warm unfurls in my chest at his words. I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. His face is relaxed, open in a way I rarely see.
“Thank you for letting me,” I reply softly.
His eyes meet mine, and there's something in them that makes my breath catch. Not lust or amusement or even affection—something deeper.
I settle back against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. His arm tightens around me, secure and warm.
I stretch, feeling more rested than I have in weeks.
The Hawkins house is quiet this morning—a peaceful contrast to the laughter and conversation that filled it yesterday.
I check my phone: 7:43 AM. Early, but I've never been good at sleeping in, especially in new places.
Troy is snoring beside me and I leave him to rest.
I slip out of bed, borrowing the soft robe Claire left for me, and pad down the hallway toward the kitchen. Coffee is the first priority. I'll see if anyone else is up after.
The house is still quiet, though I spot a note on the kitchen counter in elegant handwriting:
Gone for a walk with Tara & Alfie. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Coffee maker is ready to go—just press start. -Claire
I smile, appreciating both the thoughtfulness and the space. No pressure to make small talk first thing in the morning.
I press the button on the coffee maker and watch as it begins to brew. While waiting, I wander into the living room, taking in the family photos in daylight. Troy and Tara as children, building a snowman. Claire teaching a teenage Troy to drive. A younger Troy accepting some kind of academic award.
The coffee maker beeps. I head back to the kitchen, pour myself a cup, and add a splash of oat milk from the fridge. Perfect.
I'm just taking my first sip when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Troy appears in the doorway, hair sticking up in about six different directions, looking adorably rumpled in flannel pajama pants and a faded UMS t-shirt.
“Morning,” he mumbles, making a beeline for the coffee. “You're up early.”
“Old habits,” I say, hiding my smile behind my mug. Morning Troy is significantly less polished than the one I'm used to seeing. “Your mom and Tara went for a walk.”
He grunts in acknowledgment, pouring coffee and adding an obscene amount of sugar. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes. It was nice.”
He smiles, now slightly more awake. “Good. Mom loves having you here. I think she's planning to interrogate you about sustainable architecture over breakfast.”
“I can handle it.” I take another sip of coffee.
The conversation shifts to breakfast plans and whether we should wait for Claire and Tara. I volunteer to make pancakes while Troy sets the table.
“Oh, I need your charger,” he says, reaching for his dead phone. “Mine's upstairs.”
“Bedside table of the guest room,” I say. “Plugged into the wall.”
“You're a lifesaver.” He kisses the top of my head as he passes, and I smile despite myself.
While mixing pancake batter, I realize I forgot to check my own messages. Mr. Abernathy was going to let me know if he needed extra help this weekend. I wipe my hands and head to the guest room to check.
Troy's phone is on the bedside table, now plugged into my charger. As I reach for my own phone, his screen lights up with a notification. I shouldn't look—I know I shouldn't—but the name catches my eye.
Brianna.
It's just sitting there on his lock screen. A preview of a message that makes my heart stop.
Brianna
Thinking about you... You coming to the Alpha party next week?
My fingers hover over the phone. This is an invasion of privacy. This is wrong. But...
Too much hassle. I've got nothing to hide anyway.
His words echo in my mind. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pick up his phone. No passcode necessary—the notification is right there on the screen. I tap it, and the entire conversation between the two of them from the last few months appears.
Brianna
You're looking like a snaccc in that gym pic
Haha thanks Bri.
Brianna
We should hang sometime, just us
Haha, yeah, maybe
Brianna
Thinking about you... You coming to the Alpha Si party tomorrow night?
The timestamps show these are from the past week—while he's been with me. While he's been calling me his girl. My stomach twists into a tight knot.
I notice another notification further up—a fire emoji reaction from Troy on one of Brianna's Instagram stories. The story has expired, but the record of his reaction remains. A fire emoji? Surely that’s only to one of Brianna’s “selfies” that are really just boob shots.
I carefully put the phone back exactly as I found it, my hands trembling slightly. There's a rushing sound in my ears that drowns out everything else.
He hasn't explicitly flirted back, but he hasn't shut it down either. And that fire emoji...
“Pancakes almost ready,” Troy calls from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I reply, my voice unnaturally bright. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
This is why I don't let myself get comfortable. This is why I don't trust easy charm and smooth words. I knew better, and I let myself forget.
I paste on a smile and head back to the kitchen, not knowing what to believe anymore. The warmth and belonging I felt yesterday has been punctured, deflating slowly but steadily with each passing minute.
The rest of the day, I go through the motions. I make pancakes with Troy. I laugh at his stories. I help Claire with dishes and accept Tara's invitation to get coffee next week.
But something inside me has shifted, retreated. I'm already planning my exit strategy, already rebuilding the walls I let down.
Because good things don't last. Not for me. And I was a fool to think otherwise.