Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Kyle
The ride takes fifteen minutes, long enough for the drizzle to soak through my jacket and short enough that I almost turn around halfway there. I hadn’t planned to show up on the bike, but it was that or risk sitting in traffic and overthinking everything.
I bought the bike with part of my signing bonus.
Walked into a dealership, pointed at a black Yamaha, and didn’t think twice.
There’s something about riding it that I can't get anywhere else. The world falls away, and for a few minutes, it’s just me—no expectations pressing in, no comparisons to my brothers weighing me down.
Cooper hates it. Calls it reckless. Maybe that’s part of why I love it.
On the bike, I’m not the youngest Hendrix or a rookie first draft pick.
I’m just free. And for fifteen minutes, that’s enough.
But when I pull into her lot and spot her little silver hatchback under the streetlight, none of that matters anymore.
Alycia steps out before I even cut the engine and smooths a curl behind her ear, muttering something under her breath about humidity like it’s a personal enemy. When her eyes find me, she lights up. Not polite or forced, but a genuine smile that punches the air right out of my lungs.
“You made it,” she says, her voice warm and lighter than before.
“I said I would.” I tug off the helmet as her gaze drifts over me, lingering on the bike.
“You ride?”
“Sometimes. It’s safer than it looks.”
She gives me a look that’s half amused, half unimpressed. “That’s exactly what reckless people say.”
“Probably.” I swing a leg off, boots splashing against the wet asphalt. “I’ll get you on the back of it one day.”
“Absolutely not.” But the way her eyes flick to the bike says she’s already imagining it.
“You’ll change your mind.”
She shakes her head, but the genuine smile that slips out betrays her. There’s a spark in it that tells me this isn’t just a one-night act for her, no matter how hard she’s trying to keep it professional.
She turns toward the building, and I fall in beside her. Every few strides, her shoulder brushes mine lightly, just enough to pull a thread tight in my chest. I shouldn’t notice, but I do. Every damn time.
She doesn’t look at me directly, but the corner of her mouth lifts like she knows exactly what she’s doing. I tell myself to focus on the walk, not the way her hair clings to her neck or the way she smells like vanilla and something that feels dangerous.
At the door, I pull it open and tip my head. “After you, milady.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” She gives a mock curtsy, laughing softly, a sound that curls around my ribs and refuses to let go.
The interior walls share the same boring cream color as all the apartments here, but she makes it better. She bypasses the elevator without a second thought, pressing the door to the stairwell open with her shoulder.
“It’s only two flights.”
“Good,” I tell her, following close behind. “I’m not sure I’d survive being that close to you again in a box that small.”
Her head tilts, a smirk playing on her lips. “That right?”
“Elevators make me nervous.”
“Since when?”
“Since you started getting in them with me.”
She laughs, the sound echoing off the concrete.
Our footsteps reverberate through the stairwell—hers quick, mine steady behind her. Every few steps, she glances over her shoulder, not even trying to be subtle, like she’s checking to make sure I haven’t disappeared. Each time she does, her lips twitch as if she’s fighting a smile.
“You worried I’ll get lost?”
She doesn’t turn around this time, but her voice floats back, teasing. “You look like a flight risk.”
“Only when I’m not chasing something I want.”
The hallway hums under fluorescent lights when we reach the second floor. The carpet is worn and patterned like it’s seen better days. She stops at a door near the end, digging through her bag. The doormat says Hope You Like Dogs. Its corners are frayed, cheerful, and completely her.
“Don’t judge the mat. I don’t even have a dog, but my mom bought it.”
“I wasn’t judging,” I say, leaning against the wall. “Just trying to figure out what kind of dog I’m supposed to like.”
Her smile breaks free, soft and unguarded. “The kind that sheds. Everywhere.”
“So, basically chaos.”
“Exactly.” Her smile breaks free, unguarded. “Story of my life.”
The words hang there, softer than she means them to. Before I can find something to say, she fishes out her keys. Her fingers shake just a little, the metal clicking in the quiet hall.
I step closer before I can talk myself out of it. “Need help?”
“No, I’ve got it.” Her voice wavers, and the tremor in it hits me harder than it should.
The key slips again, a metallic scrape in the quiet hall, and I catch the faint shake in her hand before my body moves on instinct, my fingers closing over hers.
Her skin is cool from the rain, and the contact steals every coherent thought I’ve ever had.
She goes still as if she can’t decide whether to pull away or lean in.
“Is this okay?”
She nods once, the pulse in her throat beating so visibly it feels like something I could trace with my mouth if I were reckless enough.
The world narrows until there’s nothing but the scent of her—vanilla and storm air—and the heat rising between us.
Her lashes lift, catching the light, and suddenly, the hallway feels too small to hold what’s happening.
I can see the soft pink of her mouth when she swallows, and every part of me aches to close the space that still exists between us.
I lean in just enough for her breath to brush my chin, and for a suspended moment, I’m certain she’s going to meet me halfway.
Her eyes flick to my mouth and back again, a silent question neither of us knows how to answer.
Her breath catches, and for a split second, it feels like she stops time.
Then, the key slides home with a sharp click, the sound shattering everything fragile that has gathered between us.
She startles first, a quiet laugh slipping out as if she feels embarrassed about being caught feeling something too real.
“Sorry,” she murmurs as she turns the knob. “It’s a mess.”
“Messy is fine.” My voice comes out lower than I intend, rough with everything I’m trying not to say. “Means you live here.”
Her lips curve into a sincere smile that starts at her eyes and ends somewhere inside me. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is,” I tell her, and I mean every word.
We stay there, suspended between the light spilling from her doorway and the storm still clinging to our clothes, caught in the aftershock of almost. Then she steps inside, leaving me alone in the hallway with the traitorous thought that I almost kissed her, and I already want another chance.
The door swings open, and warm light spills into the hallway as she pops her head out. “Did you plan on standing out here like a creeper, or are you coming inside?”
Her smile hits like a sucker punch. It’s not the practiced one she used at the arena.
It’s real, like sunlight after it rains, and it knocks the air clean out of me.
My heart kicks hard against my ribs, and there’s a part of me that wants to step closer just to see if she smells the same up close as she did earlier—coffee, vanilla, and something faintly sweet that’s been driving me insane all night.
“Right, yeah.” My voice trips over itself, and I run a hand through my damp hair like that’ll hide it. “Definitely coming in.”
Her eyes linger on me before she steps aside.
The faint brush of her shoulder as I walk past short-circuits every rational thought I have left.
Inside, her apartment smells like coffee and something so her it hits me lower than it should.
My eyes sweep the room once, trying to take in more than I should.
A framed photo of her with older relatives sits on the shelf, everyone laughing like they’re in on the same joke.
Books are stacked everywhere. A candle is burned down to the glass.
The couch looks like she has fallen asleep on it more than she has sat upright.
“This is… you,” I murmur.
She glances back, lips quirking. “You mean cluttered and unorganized?”
“I mean lived in.” I let my eyes drag over the space, then her. “Warm. The kind of place it’s impossible to walk into without wanting to stay.”
She watches me for a second too long, the corners of her mouth fighting a smile she doesn’t want to give me. “So that wasn’t an insult?”
“Not even close.” I glance around, slower this time, taking her in with the space. “It’s comforting, like you.”
Uncertainty flickers across her face, and for a heartbeat, she looks like she’s about to say something.
I see it in the way her shoulders lift, the way her lips part, then press back together.
Her eyes meet mine, and the world narrows to a pinpoint.
Everything else around us fades. It’s just her and the sound of our uneven breaths tangling in the quiet.
I take a step forward before I even register moving. Her gaze dips to my mouth, then jerks back up, but the damage is done. My hand tightens at my side, wanting to drag my fingers along the line of her jaw, to see if her skin feels as soft as it looks under the glow of the hallway light.
“Alycia.” Her name rasps out of me, a rough sound that comes from wanting too much.
She exhales, lips parting like she’s about to say maybe don’t or maybe do, I can’t tell.
The air vibrates between us, heavy with what neither of us is saying.
I’m close enough to feel the heat of her body reach for mine.
She sways slightly like she might meet me in the middle.
I can taste the possibility of it, but then she blinks, and the spell cracks.
“I should…” She pulls in a sharp breath as her voice falters. “I should go change before we’re late.”
The words cut through the tension, and I nod, even though every part of me wants to do anything but. “Yeah. Okay.”
She hesitates, eyes flicking to mine. There’s something there—fear, want, confusion—but she tucks it away and steps back.
“Don’t take too long,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
She nods once, then turns. Her heels click softly against the floor, each step pulling her further out of reach. She disappears down the hall, and the sound of the bedroom door closing lands harder than it should.
The quiet she leaves behind presses in. My chest is still tight, pulse beating too fast for how still I’m standing. It isn’t just the want. It’s the restraint, the effort of holding it all in when every part of me is still reaching for her.
I should sit down and try to think about anything else.
But my gaze drifts toward that closed door, and all I can picture is her on the other side.
The need to move, to do something, hits hard enough that I finally drop onto the couch.
It dips under my weight, but the ache doesn’t ease.
My palms drag against my jeans—the same hands that almost touched her are still shaking from not doing it.
I close my eyes and exhale, trying to think about anything else, but all I can picture is her in that room, unbuttoning her blouse, fingers skimming over skin I haven’t seen but already know would undo me.
The door opens, and every coherent thought I have disappears.
Her hair’s down now—wild curls, soft volume—and she looks like she walked straight out of every thought I’ve tried not to have about her.
The loose sweater she’s wearing is the color of red wine, clinging just enough to hint at the shape underneath.
Faded jeans, cuffed at the ankles, and bare feet against the hardwood.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t her looking like something warm and alive and so painfully real.
“What?” She catches me staring and hesitates, hand still on the doorframe.
I drag my gaze back up to her face. “Nothing. Just… wasn’t ready for that.”
“For what?”
“For you to look like that.”
She crosses her arms like she doesn’t realize it only draws my attention to the way the sweater moves with her.
“You say that as if I did something unusual.”
“Existing is unusual enough right now.”
Her lips twitch, but she looks away, brushing a curl over her shoulder to buy herself a second. The movement exposes the soft line of her neck, and I feel it everywhere. She toes the edge of the rug with her feet, and that’s when I notice her toenails painted in a pale blush pink.
“You planning to go like that?” I ask, voice low.
“Why?” Her eyes flick up, playful and unsure. “You got something against bare feet?”
“Not even a little. Just makes it harder to focus.”
“You really shouldn’t say things like that.” She laughs breathily, disbelief laced with something softer.
“Then stop making them true.”
That wipes the humor from her face. What’s left is raw and real.
Something neither of us can look at for too long.
The silence hums between us. My body reacts before my brain does, and I take a step closer…
then another, stopping just short of her.
I can feel her breath catch when she realizes how little space is between us.
My hand curls at my side, aching to close the distance.
“Careful,” I whisper. “You keep looking at me like that, we’re not going anywhere.”
Her eyes lift to mine, pupils wide, chest rising and falling like she’s trying to steady herself. For a heartbeat, I think she might step forward. The air feels charged, fragile. One wrong move and it’ll break. But then she blinks, pulling herself back.
“Dinner,” she breathes, her voice thinner than before. “We should go.”
It feels like surfacing too fast, so I drag in a breath and try to smile. “Right. Dinner.”
“What time is it?”
I check my phone because I need to look anywhere but at her. “You’ve got exactly forty-five seconds to get out that door and down to your car before we’re officially late.”
Her mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll stop pretending I’m a gentleman.”
The grin that flickers across her face wrecks me. “Guess I’d better hurry, then.”
She grabs her purse from the counter and brushes past, her hair grazing my arm. It’s just a whisper of contact, but it leaves every nerve awake and burning. She pauses at the door, glancing back with a small, knowing smile.
“Are you coming?”
I swallow the hundred things I could say. “Yeah, right behind you.”
I am, for every step, because I already know what this is.
And I’ll wait as long as it takes for her to see it, too.