Chapter Four
Sage pulled the cushions off the couch and shook out the blanket like he could scatter last night’s weirdness with the crumbs.
A bottle cap pinged across the floor and skittered under the TV stand.
He crouched, fished it out, and added it to the small pile on the coffee table.
The apartment smelled of leftover pad Thai and stale beer.
He cracked the kitchen window and let the cold come in.
Cleaning helped. It always had. Visible progress, tasks he could tick off without thinking too hard. He stacked cartons, tied a trash bag, and wiped down the counter. Every time his mind drifted to the kiss, he shoved it back with the rhythm of work. Spray, wipe, rinse, repeat.
“You were drunk,” he told the faucet, which didn’t disagree. “He was drunk. It was nothing.”
Sage’s lips still felt…aware. Not sore. Not bruised.
Just aware. Tingly. He pressed them together once, shook his head, and kept moving.
He swapped out the kitchen towel, ran hot water over the sink, then filled a bowl with soapy suds for the last of the plates.
The soap smelled clean, citrusy, and he liked that. He liked things in their place.
He remembered how Bryce did not stay anywhere. He sprawled and took up space. Laughed like the room was his. Smiled with half his mouth first, something that Sage hadn’t noticed until then. Said stupid things and made Sage laugh.
Sage shoved the thought aside and leaned a hip against the counter. Tonight was Saturday. They’d planned a small party. Friends, music, food, and beer. Nothing wild. Well, a little loud probably. That would be fine. Noise pushed feelings away where Sage could manage them.
His phone buzzed with texts in the group chat. Unlocking it, Sage saw the first one from Lizzie. 8 still good? I’m bringing brownies.
Dan had responded. Got the playlist. You’re welcome.
Gage had responded. Beer run is handled.
Tara had text, Do not let Dan touch the aux cable again.
Sage replied. All good. See you at 8.
Putting the phone down, Sage grabbed the vacuum and did a slow pass over the rug.
He could still picture the exact place he’d sat the night before, back against the couch, Bryce’s arm loose over his shoulder.
It would be easy to read into that, and he refused to.
He wasn’t seventeen. He didn’t need drama.
He needed his head clear and his homework done and the kitchen stocked with food and drink for later.
When everything looked right, he took a quick shower, hot enough to steam up the mirror, and stood under the water until the ghost of beer in the air rinsed away.
He tried not to think while he did it. Didn’t work.
The kiss kept appearing like some stupid song you couldn’t stop remembering.
Not fireworks. Not even electricity. Just a steady heat that had landed low and surprised him because there hadn’t been a jolt of wrong behind it.
Stepping out of the shower, Sage toweled off, dragged a comb through his hair, then pulled on a fresh T-shirt and jeans.
Gray shirt, the one that felt soft from years of washes.
He didn’t pick it for any particular reason.
He just liked it, and it had nothing to do with Bryce saying that he looked good in it.
By late afternoon, Sage had the living room ready.
Furniture nudged back to make space, the fold-up table out of the hall closet, bowls ready for chips, a stack of red cups lined up.
The window was still cracked, letting in a thin ribbon of cold that kept the room from smelling like the previous night.
The front door clicked at six-thirty. Bryce shouldered in with two grocery bags, a case of beer balanced on his hip, and a thin film of cold on his cheeks. His black hair had been flattened by a beanie, then liberated, sticking up all over the place.
“Hey,” he said, dropping the bags onto the table. “I have chips, salsa, hummus that looked fancy, and something labeled ‘party mix’ that I already regret.”
Sage lifted an eyebrow. “You got vegetables?”
“I grabbed celery. Don’t judge me.”
Sage snorted. “I will absolutely judge you for the celery.”
Bryce smirked, then sobered a fraction as his gaze slid over the room. “Looks good.”
“Easy job.”
They worked without talking much at first. Bryce broke down the plastic on the cup pack. Sage set out napkins, slid bowls into place. The familiar quiet between them tried to settle back, even with the thin thread of tension humming under it.
Bryce nudged him with an elbow. “Playlist ready? Or are we risking Dan again?”
“Dan claims he curated a vibe.”
“Dan’s vibe is ‘2010 frat basement.’”
Sage’s mouth twitched. “We have a veto button. It’s called my phone.”
Bryce grinned, then caught his lip, teeth pressing briefly like he’d remembered something and wanted to keep it from escaping. He dropped his eyes and started stacking plates. “So… about the last night.”
Here it was. The thing. Sage took a measured breath. “You kissed me because you were drunk,” he said calmly. “We don’t have to make it weird.”
Bryce’s shoulders eased a little. “Yeah. I mean…yeah. Good. Thanks.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Silence descended for a couple of beats, then Bryce added, “I’m sorry if I crossed a line.”
Sage shook his head. “If you’d crossed a line, I would’ve shoved you off the couch.”
That pulled a laugh from Bryce. “Noted.”
They went back to work. The tension didn’t vanish, but it had shifted. The air felt less brittle now as Bryce cracked the first beer and slid it to Sage, opened one for himself, and raised the bottle. “To not being weird.”
Sage clinked his bottle against Bryce’s. “To not being idiots.”
“That one might be tougher.”
“Lizzie’s bringing brownies,” Sage said.
“Bless her,” Bryce replied. “We should hide two for breakfast.”
“Breakfast brownies?”
“Protein.”
Sage chuffed. “That’s not how protein works.”
Bryce leaned against the table, his easy smile back in place. “Don’t take this from me.”
The door buzzer saved Sage from replying.
He hit the intercom and let the first wave in.
In another ten minutes, the apartment filled with voices and winter coats and the stomp of boots by the door.
Someone brought a plastic tub of pasta salad.
Someone else brought a bag of limes. Sage held the limes and then shook his head.
Dan arrived with his playlist and was immediately told he was on probation.
Sage watched their friends as they came in.
People windmilling arms out of jackets, calling hellos over shoulders, laughing loudly, putting the odd item on the table.
It gave him something to do with his hands as he put coats where he could.
He could be the host, the guy with the bottle opener, the one who knew where the extra toilet paper lived.
He didn’t have to be the person sitting alone with his thoughts.
Bryce slid into it, too, like he always did, moving that big, loose body through groups, talking to everyone, laughing too loud at bad jokes.
A girl Sage had seen in their building gave Bryce a hug that lingered, and Sage felt a faint buzz of…
not jealousy. Not exactly. Awareness maybe.
He shelved it with the other feelings he didn’t have time for.
“Where’s your tool set?” Gage asked at one point, thumbing at a loose cabinet knob.
“Hall closet,” Sage said. “Second shelf.”
“You and your organized life,” Gage muttered with a smile and a shake of his head.
Someone started a conversation near the window about the campus snowmelt machine and whether it was a scam.
Lizzie elbowed her way into the kitchen and cut brownies without waiting for a knife, using a plastic fork instead.
Dan pressed play on his playlist and got three songs in before Tara stage-whispered, “I swear if I hear that one more time—” and Sage quietly swapped the queue.
The night moved on. The apartment warmed, and coats piled up.
The air took on that party smell of sweat, beer, and cheap perfume.
Sage refilled bowls, kept the sink clear, tuned one ear to the room’s hum.
He talked, he listened, and he laughed in the right places.
Every so often, his gaze found Bryce without permission.
Just a check-in. Just to see where he was.
Bryce was at the far end of the room now, back to the wall, head tipped toward a conversation with Lizzie and Dan.
He was smiling. His eyes crinkled when he did.
Sage registered that and then registered that he’d registered it.
He looked down, took a swallow of beer he didn’t want, and repositioned the stack of napkins that didn’t need to be moved.
“You good?” Tara asked, sliding in next to him to snag a cup.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’ve rearranged those three times.”
He glanced at his hands and let them fall. “Host fidget.”
She eyed him for a second, like she wanted to pry, but she didn’t. “Fine, but if Dan gets control of the music again, I’m calling you a negligent host.”
Sage chuckled. “Understood.”
At nine, someone started a story that required arm flailing. Someone else tried to open the window and failed. The laughter was bright and easy. Bryce drifted in beside Sage, shoulders almost touching as he reached for the chips.
“Brownies are dangerous,” Bryce said around a mouthful. “Hide the tray.”
“We’re not hiding food from our guests,” Sage told him.
“We absolutely are. What if we want some later?”
Sage slid the tray toward him without looking like he did it. “Two. That’s it.”
“You’re a good man, Everest.”
“Don’t spread it around.”
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. It hit Sage like walking under a hot vent, and he stepped left a half inch so he could breathe cooler air. Bryce didn’t seem to notice. Or he did and pretended not to. Sage couldn’t tell, and not knowing tugged at him in a way he didn’t want it to.
“Okay, children,” Dan called, clapping his hands over his head like he was some camp counselor. “Spin the bottle. Clean version. Mostly.”