Chapter 19
TROY
There's a particular sort of disorder that happens when six college students get crammed into a too-small kitchen.
Alex is already lighting one of her hippie soy candles, preaching about how it'll “neutralize the meat toxins” or whatever.
Freddie's rolling his eyes behind her back while sneaking extra jalapenos into the guac because he knows she can't handle heat.
Ethan's shouting “Fajita Friday, baby!” from the living room like it's a national holiday, trying to trash-talk Alfie into a Mario Kart rematch.
Meanwhile, Tara's frantically trying to save the rice from boiling over.
And me? I'm manning the stove like the culinary god I am.
Which, compared to these disasters I call roommates, isn't a high bar.
The pan sizzles as I toss another batch of peppers and onions with a flick of my wrist. The whole kitchen smells like lime, chili, and garlic.
I'm in my zone – head slightly sweaty, biceps flexed (not on purpose, but it's a nice bonus), apron on (yeah, I rock an apron, fight me), and totally dominating this situation.
Until I hear the knock.
Shit. Is that her? Did she actually show?
Tara practically sprints to the door and flings it open with the enthusiasm of someone who's spotted a puppy on the sidewalk. She's been talking Delilah up all week like they're suddenly besties.
And there she is, rocking a black zip-up and jeans that should be illegal, giving the room this cautious once-over like she's already calculating her escape route. My throat goes dry at the sight of her. Those fucking legs.
I have to force myself to look away before I get caught staring like some lovesick idiot.
She's never been big on crowds. At camp, I thought she was just allergic to fun, always sitting off by herself or hanging with the ancient cafeteria lady. But now I'm wondering if it's just people in general that stress her out.
“Hey!” Tara practically sings, grabbing Delilah's arm. “You came! I'm so glad!”
“Yeah,” Delilah says, clearing her throat. “Kind of hard to say no when you're peer pressuring me all week on Instagram about the best ever fajitas.”
“You guys follow each other?” I can't help asking. Delilah won't even accept my follow request, but she's buddies with my sister? Unbelievable.
I glance up from the stove, and our eyes lock for a split second. That familiar electric current runs through my veins, hot and immediate. My body reacts before my brain can catch up—pulse quickening, muscles tensing, blood rushing south with embarrassing speed.
I shoot her my best lazy smile. “Told you I wasn't lying. I cook.”
“We're pals.” Tara smirks at me, clearly enjoying this way too much.
Delilah looks around, taking in the scene before her eyes land on me at the stove. Her gaze drags over me slowly, lingering on my forearms, my shoulders, before snapping back to my face. She was checking me out. The thought sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
“So…you do really do this?” she asks, sounding genuinely shocked, like she expected to catch me in a lie.
“Every damn Friday,” Ethan shouts from the couch before I can answer. “Well, most Fridays when we're not out partying. So, some Fridays. It's like a religious experience, a tradition!”
“And Troy takes it weirdly seriously,” Alfie mutters, not looking up from his controller. The door between the rooms is wide open so we can all hear each other's bullshit.
“I take greatness seriously,” I reply, flipping a tortilla with one hand because I'm showing off and not even trying to hide it. “This, my friends, is how you cook a tortilla perfectly. Notice the optimal gold-to-brown ratio.”
Delilah snorts from across the kitchen. “Do you always narrate your cooking?”
“Only when the audience is pretty.”
A dramatic sigh escapes Freddie, and Tara hurls a kitchen towel at my head without even looking up.
“Gross,” she mutters.
But Delilah just arches a brow, a flush creeping up her neck. Her eyes meet mine with a challenge that makes my heart slam against my ribs.
“These hands are magic, Greer, magic,”
“I'll believe it when I taste it, Hawkins.”
Christ. The way she says my name—half dismissive, half taunting—it does things to me. Dangerous things. I grip the spatula harder, forcing myself to focus on the food instead of fantasizing about backing her against the fridge and showing her exactly what my hands are capable of.
The others are setting the table, Tara barking orders like she's hosting the damn Queen of England instead of a Friday night fajita fest, and Delilah just... hovers. Not awkward exactly. Just watchful. Observing everything like she's taking mental notes.
I like having her here.
More than I should.
She keeps brushing that one strand of hair out of her face and sneaking glances at the stove like she wants to ask something.
The urge to tuck that stubborn strand behind her ear is almost overwhelming. I want to touch her so badly my fingers ache with it.
I nudge her with my elbow instead, keeping a safe distance.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She turns to look at me, and her eyes are bright, and a little surprised.
“I'm fine,” she says. “It's just... a lot of energy in here.”
“Yeah, we're not great at chill,” I say. “But you're doing good.”
She rolls her eyes. “I'm not some fragile little kitten.”
“No, Mittens,” I murmur. “You're definitely not that.”
I flip another tortilla and glance over at her. “I like you being here.”
She glances at me sideways. “Yeah?”
I nod. “It's nice. Like I've got a silent sous-chef who judges my technique with her eyes.”
I hold out a lime and a knife. “Wanna be on citrus duty? I trust you with sharp objects. Mostly.”
There's a pause. Then a small shrug. “Okay.”
“Don't say I never gave you anything, Greer.”
She rolls her eyes, slicing the lime. “You gave me emotional damage all summer, Hawkins.”
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, there's no edge. Just Delilah.
And something's different tonight.
She's less guarded. Still wary, still Delilah, but... the walls aren't quite as high. And I can't stop noticing shit I shouldn't.
The way she bites her bottom lip when she's focused. The clean, warm scent of her—vanilla and almond and something that's just her. The fact that her sleeve keeps slipping down her arm, and my brain, my stupid fucking brain, keeps imagining what she'd look like in one of my hoodies.
Or nothing at all.
Focus, dipshit, I remind myself, turning back to the pan before I burn the whole house down.
“Hey, Delilah,” Freddie calls a bit later, nodding toward the back door. “Mind if I check out the bike while we wait for food?”
Delilah shrugs, wiping her hands on a paper towel. “Sure, but I'm telling you now, it's probably beyond saving. Please don't stress about it.”
“We'll see,” he says, already heading outside.
Alex follows him, already launching into another talk about lithium batteries and the ethics of sustainable rubber or whatever the hell she's been reading this week.
From the living room, Ethan suddenly perks up. “Wait. Did he just say Hey Delilah? Like the song?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he starts belting out the first lines of that old Plain White T's song at top volume, dramatically serenading her from across the room.
Tara giggles, glancing at Delilah. “Do you get that a lot?”
“All the time,” Delilah says with a long-suffering sigh. “Every new semester, every new introduction. It's like people think they're the first ones to ever make the connection.”
Ethan is still wailing the chorus from the couch, eyes closed, fully committed to his impromptu performance. Everyone's ignoring him, which only makes him sing louder.
Tara's setting out drinks and somehow forcing Alfie into helping with placemats—placemats, which I'm pretty damn sure we don't even own. Where did she get those? Is everyone putting in extra effort because Delilah's here?
Kind of sweet, actually. But I'd rather die than admit how much it means to see my friends embracing her.
And then Delilah's back at my side, reaching past me to grab the stack of warm tortillas.
Our arms brush—barely a touch—but it's enough to send a jolt of electricity straight through me like I just stuck my finger in a socket.
My skin burns where she touched me, and I have to stifle a groan. This is fucking torture.
She glances up and catches me watching her. Her pupils are dilated, a flush high on her cheeks. She felt it too. I know she did.
I grin, cocky and casual, trying to play it cool when I'm half-hard in my jeans just from a goddamn arm brush. “You good, Mittens?”
Her eyes narrow. “I will stab you with this lime knife.”
“Kinky,” I shoot back.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. And for half a second, everything else in the room fades. Alfie and Tara are busy whispering to each other over the dining table.
The kitchen’s small. She’s close. Too close. Her hip brushes mine as she reaches for the cilantro, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
Our eyes lock.
For once, she doesn’t look away.
Her fingers linger near mine on the cutting board, just shy of touching.
There's a heartbeat—maybe two—where I think she's going to lean in.
Or maybe I will. My body is a livewire, every nerve ending firing at once, begging me to close the distance, to pin her against the counter, to find out if she tastes as good as she smells.
“Well?”
Ethan’s voice explodes through the room like a bomb, and we both flinch. He stumbles into the kitchen, sweaty and beaming from his Broadway audition for one.
“What did you guys think? Grammy-worthy, right?”
Alfie doesn’t even glance up from setting the table. “Was that supposed to be in a key? Any key at all?”
“Harsh, dude.” Ethan clutches his chest. “I poured my soul into that performance.”
“Next time try pouring your voice lessons into it instead,” Tara says.