Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Mornings in Charlestown had never been a sleepy affair.
Garbage trucks rumbled down narrow alleyways.
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance.
People yelled and car horns blared. The morning after a heavy snowfall added the additional sounds of snowblowers and plastic shovels scraping against the pavement.
I hadn’t bothered setting an alarm. I had nowhere to be that morning, and with the environmental orchestra outside, oversleeping wasn’t really an option anyway.
Dani stirred beside me. The sweatshirt I’d lent her had slipped slightly off her shoulder, revealing the line of her collarbone.
She stretched, letting out a small, sleepy sound.
I leaned a little closer, drawn to her in a way that felt unavoidable.
The room felt smaller, the noises outside fading into a dull background hum, as if the apartment had folded in on us.
I inhaled, suddenly aware of the faint scent of her shampoo, the warmth radiating from her side of the bed. My hand twitched, half-reaching, half-stopping, because I knew where it could lead—but her proximity made it impossible to stay still.
“Morning …” she murmured, her voice husky and low. The sound tugged at something inside me, a memory and a want I hadn’t felt in years, all tangled together.
Everything about her felt familiar, yet impossibly new—the strength in her shoulders, the subtle curve of her jaw, the way her hazel eyes held mine and dared me to cross the line. I could feel the pull, the ache, the magnetic tension that had always existed between us.
I leaned a little closer. When she leaned in as well, my heart hammered against my ribs. Our breath mingled, warm and hesitant, the world narrowing to the space between our faces, the faint brush of eyelashes, the soft brush of her sleeve against my arm.
She tilted her head slightly, lips parting just enough that the thought of touching them made my stomach clench. I wanted it, I knew she wanted it—but the rules, the boundaries, the caution we’d both agreed to, kept me frozen.
And then—the unmistakable click of a lock turning.
Before I could pull away, the door swung wide open and light from the entryway spilled in.
“Boundaries, Mom!” I shouted, half exasperated, half mortified. “Just because you have a key doesn’t mean you should use it!”
My mom’s eyes widened, taking in the scene—a rumpled Dani in my sweatshirt, me halfway leaning over her, both of us clearly … compromised.
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, cheerfully oblivious. “Your father made blueberry pancakes, and I didn’t want them to get cold. I didn’t realize you were entertaining down here.”
I pressed a hand to my face. “Mom!”
Dani managed a small, amused grin despite the intrusion. “Hi, Mrs. Marlowe,” she greeted, her voice still low from the early morning.
Something shifted on my mom’s features and in her body language. Mild embarrassment shifted to outright disbelief. It was clear she hadn’t recognized Dani as the other person in my bed until she’d spoken aloud.
Her eyes narrowed as she stared Dani down. “So this is happening again, is it?”
I sat up in bed and clenched the top blanket. My chest tightened and my words came out like a strangled prayer: “Mom. Please don’t.”
“You up and left her.” My mom’s words were sharp and accusatory. “Broke her heart without a second thought.”
Beside me, I could feel Dani stiffen.
“Mom—stop!” I desperately tried again.
“But,” she pivoted, waving the thought away, “if Reese has forgiven you, then I suppose I can, too.”
She looked between us, clearly debating whether to say something else. Instead, she gave a decisive little nod.
“Well,” she said brightly, backing through the door, “pancakes are upstairs if you want them.”
She slipped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind her.
Silence followed my mom’s departure. For a long moment, neither Dani nor I spoke. Outside, a snowblower roared to life somewhere down the block. The sound filled the apartment in a way that made the quiet between us feel even more pronounced.
Dani slowly pushed herself upright on the pull-out mattress.
“Your mom hasn’t changed,” she muttered.
I sighed. “Nope.”
I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed the back of my neck. The sheets were tangled around our feet, the blankets half sliding onto the floor.
We both stared at the disaster for a second.
“We should probably …” I gestured vaguely at the couch frame.
She nodded. “Right.”
Dani stood and grabbed one edge of the mattress while I took the other. The metal hinges squeaked loudly as we shoved the retractable bed back into place. The ancient bedframe folded back into a couch with a hollow, metallic clunk.
Dani stepped back and ran a hand through her sleep-mussed hair.
“Why does your mom think I broke up with you?”
My mouth went dry. “I, uh …”
“I thought it was mutual.” Dani blinked rapidly like her brain was still trying to catch up. She turned to me. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“I-it was,” I confirmed. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t still crushed afterwards.”
“Crushed?” she echoed.
“I might have been a little bit pouty around the house after graduation.” I shrugged, suddenly very determined to re-arrange the decorative pillows on the couch. “Turns out breaking up with someone you’re still in love with kind of sucks.”
The words hung between us.
Dani licked her lips slowly, thinking.
“Did you want to try long-distance?” she asked. “Back then, I mean. Was I an idiot for not trying harder?”
My chest tightened. “That was a lifetime ago, Dani.”
“That’s not really an answer,” she returned.
“Let’s not dwell on the past,” I said quietly. “I’d rather think about the present.”
Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer before she finally nodded. “Okay.”
“Coffee?” I suggested.
“Please,” Dani agreed, and it felt like a small truce.
The kitchenette was barely more than a corner of the studio—sink, coffee maker, two cabinets that had been repainted so many times they no longer looked wooden. I filled the coffee machine with water while the old pipes thumped in the wall and scooped grounds into the filter.
Behind me, Dani leaned against the kitchen peninsula, quiet and watchful.
I opened a cabinet and grabbed two mugs. The coffee maker clicked on and began its slow, patient gurgle.
There wasn’t enough room in the kitchen for both of us to move around, so when the machine started brewing I ended up leaning against the opposite counter, facing Dani across a narrow strip of linoleum.
I wanted to say something smart or witty, but all I could do was stare. Her in that old sweatshirt was too distracting. It took me back a decade and a half to when things seemed so much simpler. Like every decision you made wouldn’t impact your life forever.
The coffee maker sputtered toward the end of its cycle.
Dani pushed off the counter a little. “Are you going to tell your mom we’re not dating?”
“I don’t … I don’t know.”
Dani shifted her weight from one foot to another. “We’re not dating though, right? We’re just friends?”
Her features shifted as well, from teasing to something infinitely more serious.
All I could do was say her name in an admonishing way: “Dani.”
“You were always so beautiful in the morning,” she said suddenly. “I never understood it. We could go to bed completely wrecked from the bars, and you’d wake up the next morning looking so fresh and rejuvenated.”
Something fluttered inside me. We hadn’t done anything the night before. Nothing had happened—at least nothing explicit—but being around her now felt like trying to hold back a dam with a paper cup.
“What else do you remember?” I asked.
Dani held my gaze.
“Everything.”
My breath caught in my throat.
She wet her lips. “Your scent. The green in your eyes. I’d never seen anything that color before. How you’d mangle the end of your pen with your teeth when you were trying to figure out a tricky story. Your freckles in the summer. Freckles,” she breathed. “Everywhere.”
Her feet hadn’t moved, but somehow she seemed closer than ever.
I wanted to tell her everything, or nothing. Words might ruin this. Instead, I leaned in a little. She leaned in too, a small, cautious movement that made the world shrink to only the two of us.
“Reese …” she murmured softly.
I let my hands find her hips, lightly, as if to anchor myself, and her fingers twined in my hair before I even realized it.
My nose brushed hers, and the tiniest, warmest sigh escaped me.
We started and stopped, little pauses that felt like a lifetime. Our faces were so close I could smell her skin, feel her warmth, hear the uneven rhythm of her breath.
And then, the slowest, most exquisite brush of lips. Nothing urgent, just the weight of wanting, of remembering, of finally being this close again. I could feel every detail of her face, every flicker of her breath, every hesitation.
My hands slid higher, tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck. She pressed closer, lips teasing, daring, coaxing me. Every nerve in my body screamed, every inch of me was alight with heat I could barely contain.
And then—it broke. Her lips found mine fully, urgent and warm and claiming.
My knees went weak. The world went wild.
My hands pressed into her back, feeling the curve of her spine, the strength beneath my fingers.
Hers were on my shoulders, along my neck, and the electricity that shot between us was so sharp my legs almost failed me.
I groaned, a little lost, a little desperate, half in disbelief that this was actually happening and half in absolute need. Her mouth was warm and familiar in a way that made my chest ache. Years collapsed in an instant, the memory of a hundred old kisses rushing back all at once.
An involuntary noise slid up my throat and out of my mouth when I discovered myself being lifted off my feet. Dani set me on the edge of the kitchen counter. Her hands settled on the tops of my thighs and her torso pressed against the space between my parted legs.
I wrapped my legs around her waist instinctively, heart hammering, hands roaming. It was fast. It was hot. It was college-level, heart-in-throat, forget-the-world intensity, and I felt myself about to tip over the edge in ways I hadn’t planned before breakfast.
“Wait.” I forced myself to pull back.
“Shit. I’m sorry,” Dani apologized in a rush. Her hazel eyes were wide and wild, searching my face. “That was too much, wasn’t it.”
God, she made me feel like I was in college again.
“Pancakes,” I exhaled. “We should make pancakes.”
I slid off the counter, my legs a little wobbly.
Dani’s hands hovered like she wasn’t sure if she should help steady me or keep her distance. My pulse was still racing, and I could feel the heat of where her body had been pressed against mine.
“Sorry,” she said again, softer this time.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I said quickly, maybe a little too quickly.
“Pancakes,” she repeated, nodding to herself. She looked like she needed a moment to pull herself together, too. “Yeah. Okay. Pancakes.”
I reached for the mixing bowl from the cabinet, suddenly very focused on the mechanics of breakfast. My kitchen was small and we bumped into each other constantly as we moved around it, hips brushing, shoulders knocking.
Dani washed her hands at the sink, her sleeves pushed up, her hair still tussled from sleep and … other things. I handed her the whisk, our fingers grazing for just a second longer than necessary.
It was stupid, the places my mind went if I let it wander—Dani in other kitchens, other mornings, with other women.
I knew, intellectually, that she’d probably made breakfast for plenty of women, or had it made for her.
And yet here she was in my kitchen, wearing my sweatshirt, whisking pancake batter.
She was still Dani. My first girlfriend.
My first love. The first person who had ever felt like home.
The thought made me bolder.
I stepped closer under the guise of reaching for the syrup, crowding her space on purpose. She didn’t move away; she only shifted her stance slightly, stocking feet planted, hips steady like she was on skates. Hockey did that to you—built you from the ground up.
Without thinking too hard about it—because thinking too hard was how I usually messed things up—I slid my hand over her ass.
The cotton sleep shorts were soft, especially in comparison to the solid muscle beneath them.
Dani most definitely had a hockey ass, powerful after years of squats and edge work.
My fingers curved instinctively, giving her backside a deliberate squeeze, like I was checking the ripeness of fruit I already knew was perfect.
The wire whisk stuttered mid-circle. “Hey!”
I hummed innocently, withdrawing my hand just enough to pretend plausible deniability. “Yes?”
She twisted at the waist to look at me, eyebrows high. “Did you just—”
“Did I just what?” I asked, wide-eyed. “We’re in a very small kitchen.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I was only reaching for the syrup,” I deadpanned.
Her lips twisted into a knowing smirk. “Uh huh.”
I stepped in again, close but not touching. “You’re doing great with the batter, by the way.”
She smiled, softening, and leaned in to kiss me. It didn’t have the sharp heat from earlier. It was just her mouth against mine, familiar and gentle. I kissed her back, slowly, letting it stay exactly what it was without pushing for more.
It would have been so easy to lose myself to that kiss. To abandon breakfast and tumble back into bed with her.
I was the one to pull back first. “No kissing at work, okay? I mean it. Boundaries.”
The corner of Dani’s mouth quirked up in a devastatingly charming smirk. “Does that mean I can kiss you when we’re not at work?”
I swallowed hard with indecision. Did it?
The cockiness faded from her beautiful face. “You set the pace, Reese. You make the rules.”
“Slow,” I decided.