Chapter 20 #2
Dad: Mom says she’s making two pies.
I smile.
Me: Tell her three.
Dad: You haven’t changed.
Maybe I have.
More than he knows.
* * *
Thanksgiving dinner almost burns down athlete housing.
This is mostly Vale’s fault.
He disagrees.
“It was the turkey.”
“You bought a twenty-two-pound turkey for six people,” Stella says.
“There are twelve people here.”
“Half of them didn’t ask for turkey.”
“It’s Thanksgiving.”
Hannah-from-three-months-ago would not recognize this room.
Stella sits on Kane’s counter drinking Diet Coke.
Vale is wearing an apron that says KISS THE COOK and has been banned from touching the oven.
Noah is peeling potatoes badly.
Eli brought canned cranberry sauce and insists the ridges are part of the tradition.
Lila and Noor came over after their own dining hall plans collapsed.
I made rolls.
Kane keeps stealing them.
Everyone is loud.
Happy.
Hungry.
Then smoke starts pouring from the oven.
I look toward Vale.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
The smoke detector screams.
Everyone freezes.
Then another one joins it.
A voice somewhere in the hall shouts, “Are we on fire?”
“No!” Kane yells.
Vale opens the oven.
Smoke billows out.
“Close it!” five people scream.
The fire alarm for the entire building begins.
Red lights flash.
Stella closes her eyes.
“I cannot believe I date you.”
Vale grabs the roasting pan.
“Turkey’s fine.”
“The building is evacuating,” I tell him.
“It needs twenty minutes.”
“You need oxygen.”
Security eventually arrives.
Then facilities.
Then someone from housing who looks ready to expel all twelve of us.
The turkey is confiscated.
Not officially.
We are simply informed that nobody may turn the oven back on.
So at seven thirty on Thanksgiving night, twelve of us pile into cars and drive until we find a restaurant still open.
A diner.
Vinyl booths.
Plastic menus.
Holiday decorations taped crookedly around the windows.
They have turkey dinners.
Barely.
The mashed potatoes come from something powdered.
Vale complains.
Stella steals food off his plate.
Kane sits beside me with his thigh pressed to mine beneath the table.
Noah gives a toast using a water glass.
“To Hannah.”
I look up.
“What?”
“For making waffles.”
“That was three weeks ago.”
“Still relevant.”
Eli raises his glass.
“To Bookworm Analytics.”
“No.”
“Study Group,” Jalen corrects.
“Better.”
Vale lifts his.
“To getting us to the Final Four.”
Kane looks at me.
His eyes hold mine.
“To Hannah,” he says.
No joke.
No nickname.
Something inside me warms.
Everyone clinks glasses.
I look around the table.
Stella arguing with Vale.
Noor laughing with Noah.
Lila stealing fries from Eli.
Kane’s hand finding mine beneath the table.
My family is in Chicago.
I miss them.
But sitting here in a cheap diner after nearly setting off the sprinkler system with people I didn’t know a few months ago—
I don’t feel alone.
Not even close.
* * *
By December, Christmas hangs over me.
Not decorations.
Dad.
Specifically Dad meeting Kane.
The conversation happens after another road game.
Kane and I are back in his room.
I’m sitting cross-legged on his bed wearing his T-shirt and my glasses while he folds clothes for tomorrow.
He is terrible at folding.
I watch him destroy a sweatshirt.
“You know you can fold sleeves inward.”
“It’s going in a bag.”
“That doesn’t erase geometry.”
He looks at me.
“Is that why you’ve been quiet?”
“No.”
He drops the sweatshirt.
“What is it?”
I trace one finger along the edge of his comforter.
“I have to go home for Christmas.”
“Okay.”
“Alone.”
That stops him.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
“Okay.”
I hate that he makes it easy.
“I need to fix things with Dad.”
“I know.”
“He’s trying.”
“I know.”
“And if I bring you…”
Kane sits beside me.
The mattress dips.
“If you bring me, what?”
I look at him.
“You’d be the present under the tree.”
His mouth twitches.
“Excellent wrapping required.”
“Kane.”
“Sorry.”
I pull one knee closer.
“He wouldn't see me.”
That removes every trace of humor.
I keep going.
“He’d see you.”
“The basketball player.”
“Not just any basketball player.”
I gesture at him.
“You.”
“Devastating.”
“The Kane Haverhill.”
He waits.
“The point guard he watches on television. The future first-round pick. The guy whose film he’d probably have pulled up before we finished appetizers.”
Kane’s jaw shifts.
I hate saying it.
“It wouldn’t be about me coming home anymore.”
His voice is quiet.
“I know.”
“I’m not embarrassed of you.”
“I know that too.”
“I need you to understand.”
“I do.”
I stare at him.
He reaches for my hand.
“My entire life, basketball has entered rooms before I do.”
The words settle between us.
“I wish I could separate it sometimes.”
My chest tightens.
“Kane.”
“I love—”
He stops.
Everything in me stops with him.
“What?”
His eyes lift to mine.
For once, Kane Haverhill looks nervous.
Actually nervous.
He rubs his thumb over my knuckles.
“I’m falling in love with you.”
My heart hits once.
Hard.
No fireworks.
No dramatic music.
Something quieter.
Something that feels like finally reaching a place I have been walking toward without knowing its name.
Kane watches me.
He doesn’t fill the silence.
Doesn’t take it back.
Doesn’t turn it into a joke.
I move closer.
“You are?”
“Yeah.”
“How inconvenient.”
His laugh comes out rough.
“Hannah.”
I touch his face.
The same jaw I held at the overlook.
The same boy who waited for me to ask.
The same man who has spent weeks showing me that wanting me does not mean owning me.
“I’m falling in love with you too.”
His eyes close.
Just for a second.
When they open again, something has changed.
Not lust.
That has been there for weeks.
This is deeper.
Almost vulnerable.
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“Hannah.”
“You heard me.”
“I want confirmation.”
“You’re needy.”
“Extremely.”
I smile.
“I’m falling in love with you, Kane.”
He kisses me.
Softly at first.
His hand slides behind my neck, and I climb into his lap without thinking.
The kiss deepens.
But tonight feels different from every other time we’ve stopped.
There’s no fear racing alongside the wanting.
No question hiding beneath it.
I pull back.
Kane’s breathing is uneven.
His forehead rests against mine.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
I nod.
Then say it because he taught me that silence isn’t enough.
“Yes.”
His hand stays at my waist.
Waiting.
I take his face between my palms.
“I started birth control.”
He blinks.
“What?”
Despite everything, I laugh.
“I did not expect that expression.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“I didn’t.”
That matters.
“I did it for me.”
His eyes search mine.
“Okay.”
“Safety first.”
“You sound like a campus brochure.”
“I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”
“I’m listening.”
I trace my thumb along his cheek.
“I don’t want to stop tonight.”
Kane goes very still.
“Hannah.”
“I know.”
“No, I need to ask.”
His voice drops.
“Are you sure?”
My heart pounds.
Not from fear.
Not anymore.
“I’m sure.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I’ll tell you.”
“And I stop.”
“I know.”
His eyes soften.
“Okay.”
I kiss him.
This time there is no line waiting ahead of us.
No arbitrary place where I need to slam on the brakes because being wanted feels dangerous.
There is only Kane.
My hands in his hair.
His arms around me.
The quiet words he keeps asking.
Still okay?
Yes.
This?
Yes.
Me?
Always yes.
And when the rest of the room disappears around us, it doesn’t feel like giving something away.
It feels like choosing.
For the first time in my life, nobody else wrote the plan.
Not Dad.
Not Ryan.
Not basketball.
Me.
I chose the school.
The job.
The boy.
The future I still haven’t figured out.
And tonight, with Kane looking at me like I am not a prize he won or a tool he needs but simply Hannah—
I choose him too.
Kane’s mouth finds mine again, slower this time, like he’s tasting the decision instead of rushing it.
His hands stay at my waist, patient, until I lift my arms. He peels the T-shirt over my head and tosses it aside.
The air is cool against my skin, but his palms are warm as they slide up my back and unhook my bra.
He doesn’t hurry.
He looks at me.
Really looks.
Then his mouth is behind my ear, soft and open, breathing me in.
Almonds and whatever shampoo I used this morning.
He kisses the spot until I shiver, then trails lower—collarbone, the hollow of my throat, the center of my sternum.
Every place his lips land feels claimed and cherished at the same time.
When he reaches my breasts he takes his time. One nipple, then the other, sucking gently, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make my back arch. My hands bury themselves in his hair. I hold him there because the alternative is floating away completely.
“Kane—”
“I’ve got you.”
He keeps going. Mouth across my ribs, the soft plane of my stomach, the dip of my belly button. By the time he reaches the waistband of my sleep shorts I’m already shaking. He looks up once, checking, and only when I nod does he ease them down my legs along with my underwear.
I’m bare.
He’s still in his pajama pants.
He settles between my thighs and presses a kiss to the inside of one knee, then higher. When his mouth finally finds my clit I make a sound I didn’t know I could make. He sucks gently, then harder, tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while two fingers slide inside me, stretching, preparing.
It’s so good it borders on overwhelming.
He works me until I’m wet and open and trembling on the edge, then lifts his head. His mouth is shiny. His eyes are dark.
“It’s going to hurt, baby,” he says quietly. “I’m bigger than most men.”
I already know. I’ve felt him against my hip, against my palm, against every place we’ve gotten close without crossing this line.
“I know. You’re six-four. Basketball player.”
A tiny smile touches his mouth. “I’ll stretch you out the best I can. And if you want to stop, we stop. Immediately.”
“I know.”