3 #2
His apartment felt like an extension of that strange freedom. There were no footsteps in a hallway that made me wonder whether my father had heard me laugh too loudly. No mother appearing with a tissue, a cardigan, or a gentler way to explain why something about me needed correcting.
Ryan’s books were stacked wrong. His mugs didn’t match. A faint water stain marked one corner of the ceiling, and nothing inside the room seemed ashamed of being imperfect.
I set the books on the coffee table and slipped my bag from my shoulder.
Ryan noticed. His eyes moved from the bag to my face. “Getting comfortable?”
“I’m protecting my shoulder.”
“Sure.”
“You’re very smug in your natural habitat.”
“You’re barefoot yet?”
“I’ve been here for two minutes.”
“You brought sixteen pillows to Flint.”
“They were expensive and emotionally supportive.”
“I heard.”
“Aura exaggerates.”
“She said you made Easton carry four.”
“He was trying to earn forgiveness. Manual labor builds character.”
Ryan laughed and walked toward the kitchen. “You want water?”
“Do you have anything besides water and protein drinks?”
“Beer.”
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“Wine.”
I turned toward him. “You have wine?”
He opened the refrigerator and lifted a bottle by the neck.
I recognized the label immediately. “That’s my favorite.”
“You brought it over months ago.”
“There was barely anything left.”
“Enough for a glass.”
“You kept it all this time?”
Ryan closed the refrigerator with his hip. “You sound surprised.”
I was.
I shouldn’t have been. He had remembered my coffee order. He remembered slippers I wore to practice years ago. He had apparently kept four ounces of wine because it belonged to me.
I folded my arms. “I’m deciding whether it’s thoughtful or evidence in a future criminal proceeding.”
“Drink it and decide later.”
He opened a cabinet and pulled down a mug.
I stared. “Absolutely not.”
“It’s clean.”
“That isn’t the issue.”
“You drink wine from plastic cups with Bliss.”
“Bliss believes dishware is a capitalist trap.”
Ryan pulled down the second mug and placed both on the counter. “Then you’ll survive.”
“I cannot drink sauvignon blanc from something that says Great Lakes, Great Problems.”
“You can use the hockey mug.”
“That is somehow worse.”
He poured anyway and held out the Great Lakes mug.
I accepted it with the dignity of someone enduring hardship beautifully. “This apartment desperately needs me.”
The joke escaped before I considered how intimate it sounded.
Ryan went still.
His gaze dropped to the mug in my hands before returning to my face. Something unguarded moved through his expression before he locked it down again.
“Yeah?”
The low note beneath the word made my stomach flip.
I took a drink to buy myself time. “Your organizational systems are hostile.”
“My books are organized.”
“By what method?”
“I know where everything is.”
“That isn’t a method. That’s memory.”
“It works.”
“Until you suffer a head injury.”
“I play hockey. That argument has weight.”
I smiled into the rim of the mug while he leaned back against the counter.
His eyes stayed on me, quiet and intent. The apartment seemed smaller without becoming uncomfortable, and I suddenly became very aware that there was no Bliss in the next room. No Cade shouting from a couch. No Briggs opening Ryan’s refrigerator without permission.
Just us.
“You’re different here,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the mug. “How?”
“Less careful.”
“I’m drinking wine from promotional stoneware. I’ve abandoned every principle.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
The humor remained in his expression, though his voice had lowered.
I looked toward the books on the coffee table. “Maybe your apartment has a calming lack of standards.”
“Or maybe you know I don’t give a fuck whether everything about you is perfect.”
The words landed too softly to defend against.
I set the mug on the counter. “That sounds good in theory.”
“It’s better in practice.”
“You say that because you’ve never seen me assemble a garment twelve hours before critique.”
“I’ve seen you threaten a sewing machine.”
“It betrayed me.”
“You called it a talentless little bitch.”
“It was skipping stitches.”
Ryan smiled as he pushed away from the counter.
He came closer slowly enough that I had time to notice every inch disappearing between us.
“That’s the version I like.”
“The one verbally abusing appliances?”
“The one who forgets to make herself smaller.”
My pulse climbed.
His gaze moved over my face while I searched for something clever enough to put space back between us, but nothing came.
Ryan stopped directly in front of me.
He lifted one hand and caught the delicate chain at my throat between two fingers before sliding them down toward the pendant I had been touching all afternoon.
“You do this when you’re nervous.”
“I like the necklace.”
“You straighten shit too.”
“I appreciate order.”
His mouth almost curved, but then his eyes sharpened.
“You stop eating when you’re stressed.”
Every warm thing in the room disappeared at once. My lungs locked, and Ryan must have seen the change because he released the necklace immediately.
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“It sounds suspiciously thorough.”
“I pay attention.”
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep acting surprised.”
I looked away.
Most people noticed what I wanted them to notice: the clothing, the grades, the right words.
If somebody commented that I looked thin, I smiled.
If somebody asked what I was eating, I laughed and changed the subject.
If Bliss pushed fries at me, I ate one where she could see me and hated myself for it later.
Ryan wasn’t supposed to look that closely.
“Most people pay attention to the useful parts.”
“What parts are those?”
“The grades. The clothes. Whether I remembered everything I was supposed to remember.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. “Those aren’t the useful parts of you.”
I looked at him again. “What are?”
“The part that snorts when you laugh hard enough.”
My mouth fell open. “That happened once.”
“It happened today.”
“You were supposed to forget.”
“I don’t forget things I like.”
Heat spread beneath my skin.
Ryan lifted his hand again, this time slower, and tucked my hair behind one ear. His knuckles brushed my cheek deliberately.
“What else?” I asked.
His eyes darkened. “You really asking?”
“I asked.”
For a moment, he simply looked at me, and the silence did something strange to the room.
“You’re funny when you stop trying to be polite.
You get mean when you’re comfortable. You sit on your legs until your feet go numb and then act personally betrayed when you can’t stand.
You love expensive shit, but you’d give every piece of it away if Bliss or Aura needed something.
” His gaze dropped over me and returned.
“You pretend you hate attention while wearing clothes designed to make people look.”
“I design clothes because I love fashion.”
“You also know what you look like in them.”
I swallowed.
Ryan’s hand slid from my hair to the side of my neck, his palm warm and rough against my skin.
“You’re beautiful when you’re polished,” he said. “I like you more when you’re not.”
Something inside me softened so fast it frightened me.
My parents loved me. I had never doubted that. Their love simply arrived with instructions so consistently that I sometimes forgot other kinds existed. Stand straighter. Choose the other dress. Study another hour. Smile. Don’t answer too quickly. Don’t speak before you know enough to be right.
Ryan looked at me like unfinished wasn’t a flaw. He looked like he might prefer the pieces nobody had corrected yet.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I admitted.
His thumb moved beneath my ear. “Do what?”
“Stop thinking about what everyone expects.”
“Start smaller.”
“How small?”
“Tell me what you want right now.”
The question settled through me.
Ryan didn’t suggest an answer. He didn’t tell me what would be appropriate, practical, smart, or safe.
He waited.
My gaze drifted toward the books. “I want the reference guide.”
“You already have it.”
“I want another glass of wine.”
“You can have the bottle.”
“You’re ruining my attempt to evade the question.”
“I know.”
His hand tightened slightly at my neck, angling my face toward his.
“What do you want, Charm?”
My fingers curled into the front of his T-shirt before I had enough time to second-guess them. “I want you to stop looking at me like you’re waiting for permission.”
Ryan’s eyes held mine. The muscles beneath my fingers tightened, but he didn’t move closer.
“I am waiting for permission.”
My heartbeat struck hard enough to make my chest ache. “You don’t seem like a man who waits for much.”
“I wait when it matters.”
Every easy answer disappeared.
I tugged gently on his shirt. “Then you can stop waiting.”
Ryan lowered his head, but his mouth stopped close enough to mine that his breath warmed my lips.
“You sure, mi hada?”
I nodded.
His eyes sharpened. “Use your words.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
Something dark and satisfied moved through his expression. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“You’re making me reconsider.”
“Too late.”
His mouth met mine.
The first touch was slower than I expected, warm and deliberate. Ryan’s hand held the side of my neck while the other settled around my waist, and for several seconds he kissed me like the whole point was proving that neither one of us had imagined what had been building between us.
Then I pulled him closer.
Everything changed.
Ryan made a low sound against my mouth that went straight through me. His hand tightened at my waist as he deepened the kiss, and the careful restraint he had carried all afternoon cracked just enough to make my knees feel unreliable.
I rose onto my toes.
His tongue brushed mine, and whatever remained of my ability to think collapsed completely. I caught the front of his shirt in both hands and kissed him harder.
Ryan answered immediately.