Chapter 23 #2
Yet I couldn’t bring myself to take off the shirt.
Instead, I wandered toward his bed, perching on the edge like I half expected alarms to sound.
The mattress was firmer than mine, the sheets higher quality.
Of course they were. This was Jaxson, after all.
Mr. Perfect. Mr. Responsible. Mr. I-Can’t-Stop-Thinking-About-Him.
I flopped backward onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling, surrounded by his scent.
Something strange happened when I lay down—a warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading outward like I’d swallowed a ray of sunshine.
It wasn’t the first time I’d felt it. This same warmth had been growing stronger over the past weeks, especially when Jaxson was near.
It felt like recognition, like homecoming, like something clicking into place that I hadn’t known was misaligned.
Along with the warmth came that scent again—honey-sweet, with undertones of cherry blossoms and lilies. It seemed to emanate from my own skin, intensifying when my emotions ran high.
“Great, now I’m hallucinating smells again,” I muttered, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. “Maybe I should get checked for a brain tumor. Or rabies. Or whatever disease makes you obsessed with your stepbrother.”
I rolled onto my side, pressing my face into his pillow, inhaling deeply. A wave of drowsiness washed over me, my body suddenly leaden with exhaustion. The warmth in my chest pulsed gently, like a second heartbeat, lulling me toward sleep.
“Just five minutes,” I mumbled into the pillow, my eyelids already drooping. “I’ll just rest for five minutes and then go back to studying…”
That was lie number three.
I jolted awake to golden afternoon light filtering through Jaxson’s curtains. My heart leaped into my throat as I registered where I was—in Jaxson’s bed, wearing Jaxson’s shirt, drooling on Jaxson’s pillow. Panic shot through me like an electric current as I fumbled for my phone.
Three forty-two p.m.
“Holy shit,” I breathed, sitting up so fast my head spun. I’d slept for nearly two hours in Jaxson’s bed like some kind of boundary-challenged Goldilocks. Any minute now, he could walk in and find me here, wearing his clothes, violating his personal space, being a complete creep.
I scrambled off the bed, trying to smooth out the wrinkles my impromptu nap had created in his perfectly made bed. It was a lost cause—the evidence of my trespass was clearly visible in the rumpled sheets and dented pillow.
My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, reminding me that I’d skipped lunch in favor of my failed study session. Food. Food was good. Food was normal. Food was something a person who wasn’t having an emotional breakdown over their stepbrother would focus on.
Reluctantly, I left Jaxson’s room, carefully closing the door behind me. I should change out of his shirt. I definitely should change out of his shirt. But my feet carried me to the kitchen instead, my brain evidently on vacation in a land where boundaries and common sense didn’t exist.
In the kitchen, I rummaged through the cabinets, finding packets of ramen that I could doctor up with leftover ham from breakfast and a couple of eggs. Nothing fancy, but better than plain instant noodles.
As I waited for the water to boil, I caught my reflection in the darkened window above the sink.
Jaxson’s white dress shirt practically swallowed me, making me look even smaller than usual.
One shoulder was exposed where the too-large collar slipped down, and with my sleep-mussed hair, I looked like I’d just rolled out of someone’s bed.
Which, technically, I had. Just not in the way that would be immediately assumed by anyone seeing me like this.
The honey-sweet scent was stronger now, wrapping around me like an invisible cloud. I’d noticed it grew more intense when I was emotional—embarrassed, excited, nervous. Right now, I was all three, standing in our kitchen wearing Jaxson’s shirt, cooking ramen like some kind of domestic fantasy.
“This is fine,” I told my reflection, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Totally normal behavior. Wearing his clothes, sleeping in his bed. Next thing you know, you’ll be naming your future children and picking out china patterns.”
The water began to boil, and I dropped the noodles in, watching as they softened and separated. There was something soothing about cooking, even something as simple as fancy ramen. I cracked two eggs into the pot, then added some chopped ham and some chopped spring onions I found in the fridge.
The fragrant steam rose around me, and for a moment, I allowed myself to imagine a different reality—one where I was making dinner for Jaxson, where wearing his clothes was normal, where the warmth in my chest wasn’t something to question but something to embrace.
The ramen was just about done, the eggs perfectly soft-boiled, when I felt it—a shift in the air, a prickling awareness that I was no longer alone. Before I could turn around, a voice spoke directly behind me, low and deliberate.
“Looks good.”
My wooden spoon clattered against the edge of the pot, heart shooting directly into my throat as my entire nervous system short-circuited. The honey-sweet scent that had been lingering around me all afternoon suddenly intensified, blooming in the air between us like an invisible flower.
Jaxson. Home early. Finding me cooking ramen while drowning in his stolen dress shirt. The universe really had it out for me today.
My brain scrambled for a witty response, something casual and breezy that might explain why I was standing in our kitchen wearing a dress shirt that probably cost more than all my worldly possessions combined. What emerged was approximately zero percent casual and one hundred percent disaster.
“It’s fancy ramen!” I blurted, still not turning around, as if keeping my back to him might somehow render me invisible. “With eggs and ham and stuff. Not just the twenty-five-cent kind.”
As if the quality of my ramen was the issue here. As if he gave two shits about my culinary innovations with instant noodles when I was literally wearing his clothes without permission.
I heard him move closer, each step making the golden warmth in my chest pulse stronger. Then I felt it—the heat of his body directly behind mine, not quite touching but close enough that the air between us seemed charged with electricity.
“I wasn’t talking about the ramen.” His voice dropped lower, sending vibrations straight down my spine. His hands came to rest on the counter on either side of me, effectively caging me in without actually touching me. “Though that does look… interesting.”
I was trapped between Jaxson’s body and the kitchen counter, my brain rapidly cycling through flight-or-fight responses before landing on a third, much more inconvenient option: horny paralysis.
My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it, blood rushing in my ears like I’d stuck my head under Niagara Falls.
“I can explain the shirt,” I said, my voice higher than usual, words coming out faster than Nico’s gaming reflexes.
“I was just—it was right there—and my clothes were all—and I didn’t think you’d mind—which I now realize was incredibly stupid of me—but I’ll wash it—dry clean it—whatever expensive fabric care ritual it requires—”
“Lan.” My name on his lips stopped my verbal diarrhea mid-flow. “Breathe.”
I inhaled shakily, suddenly aware I’d been talking without oxygen. The warmth in my chest wasn’t just internal panic—it was that strange heat that always flared when Jaxson was near, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
“I don’t mind,” he said, his voice closer now, directly beside my ear. I could feel his breath against my neck, raising goosebumps across my skin. “Though I am curious what inspired this particular… fashion choice.”
Fuck. How exactly do I explain that I’d been sniffing his shirts like some lovesick pervert?
That I’d fallen asleep in his bed because his scent made something in my chest settle like nothing else could?
That’d I’d kept wearing the shirt because taking it off felt like breaking a connection I desperately wanted to maintain?
“I spilled something on my shirt,” I lied, with all the conviction of Nico claiming he hadn’t eaten the last cookie. “And yours was… closer than mine.”
“Closer,” he repeated, and I could hear the smile in his voice even without seeing his face. “My closet was closer than yours?”
“It’s a walk-in closet!” I protested, finally turning to face him, which was a tactical error of catastrophic proportions.