Chapter 17 – Cole-Past
Chapter Seventeen
ROCK HARD TRUTHS
COLE-PAST
I lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence of the room feels heavy, but it’s not the kind of heavy that makes me uncomfortable. It’s the kind of heavy that makes my thoughts race. I can’t stop thinking about her. Kenna.
She’s all I ever think about anymore, and I know that’s probably cliché, but it’s the truth.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, not like this.
It’s more than just a crush, more than just a passing phase.
This is different. I can’t even really put it into words, but I feel it deep in my chest, like it’s a part of me now.
Every time I see her, my heart skips a beat.
When she smiles at me, it’s like the universe slows down, and I’m the only one who matters to her.
When she laughs—God, I swear I could listen to that laugh for hours.
And when she looks at me like she does, with those wide, curious eyes, I feel like she sees right through me, like she knows all the things I’m too scared to say out loud.
I want to take this to the next level with her, though.
I want to make it real. Not just holding hands or kissing her in secret places, but something deeper.
I don’t know if she’s ready for it, but I don’t want to rush her.
Neither of us has ever done it before, and I want it to be special.
I want to make sure she knows how much I care about her, how much she means to me, before I take that step.
I know we’re still young—seventeen and sixteen—but sometimes I wonder if love even has an age limit.
I mean, maybe it’s na?ve to think that, but when I’m with Kenna, everything just makes sense.
It’s like she completes me, you know? Before I met her, I was just..
.waiting for something to click, and then she showed up, and suddenly I felt whole.
I think about us, about how we are together.
The way her hand fits perfectly in mine, like it’s meant to be there.
The way she looks at me, I swear I can see the same feelings reflected in her eyes.
She’s more than just a girlfriend. She’s the person I trust most, the one I go to when everything feels too heavy.
There are parts of me she understands without me even having to explain.
Sometimes, when I open up to her, I feel like I’m standing in front of her, bare, with nothing to hide, and she’s still there, still looking at me like I’m someone worth loving.
But I want to show her I love her in a way that feels right.
I want it to be slow, to build up to that perfect moment, when we’re both ready and it’s more than just an impulsive decision.
I want her to know that I’m not rushing into anything with her just because I’m a guy, and maybe I’m supposed to be all about that stuff at this age. It’s more than that for me.
I want to take the time to make sure she feels valued and safe, like she can trust me with all of her. I never want her to feel like I’m taking her for granted or not recognizing everything she’s already given me. Her time, her heart, and her trust mean more to me than she probably knows.
I will not be the guy who constantly focuses on what comes next or worries about what people think of us.
What matters most is being present with her.
Enjoying how we laugh late at night, how the conversation flows, and making sure she knows this relationship is a space where she can be fully herself without needing to pretend.
I close my eyes and picture Kenna—her messy hair, that wild, carefree smile, the way her cheeks flush when I tell her she’s beautiful.
I just want her to know how perfect she is, even if she doesn’t always believe it herself.
She’s a woman who deserves everything good, and I’m determined to give her the best version of myself.
The thing is, I don’t know if I’m ready for what comes next.
But I know I want to be. With her. And I’ll wait until we both feel ready, because she’s worth waiting for.
More than anything, I want to make her feel the way she makes me feel—like I’m the luckiest guy in the world just because I get to be with her.
I decided then that I will wait for Kenna to initiate having sex before we do anything.
It’s the middle of July, and we’re back from that beach camping trip, sun-kissed and still buzzing from the ocean air.
Kenna didn’t want the night to end, so she stayed.
At first, she’s lying beside me warm against my chest, and I can feel the electricity in the space between us.
Then she moves, climbing on top of me like it’s second nature.
Her hips shift against mine, slow and teasing, and my heart hammers.
She pulls off her shirt with that look in her eyes—the one that says she knows exactly what she’s doing and trusts me to meet her there.
I cup her chest without thinking, and she bites her bottom lip, smiling, daring me, wanting me.
When she unhooks her bra, my breath catches.
Her skin glows under the soft lamplight, and my chest tightens. I’ve never seen anything so perfect.
I’ve felt her pressed against me before, teased her in private moments, but this—this feels like it matters.
Every inch of her pressed against me is sacred, and the want builds until it’s almost unbearable.
Every gasp, every shiver makes me hotter, more desperate, like I might combust just from wanting her.
I reach for the condom I stashed earlier, pulling it out carefully. “Are you ready?” I whisper, my hands lingering on her hips.
Her hands trace up my arms, down my back, and I feel the way her fingers linger, teasing, exploring, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Every gasp she lets out makes my chest tighten, and I’m dizzy with how much I want her.
“Cap, I want you,” she breathes. “I’ve been ready for this for months.”
“I’m yours, Sunshine. I am yours. Forever.” I go back to worshipping her.
The room feels different now—softer somehow, like the air itself has settled. The lamp casts a low, golden glow across the walls, and everything looks touched by it, like we’re inside a moment that doesn’t want to be rushed or explained.
Kenna sits beside me on the bed, knees pulled up, wrapped in the sheet. Her hair is still tangled from earlier, and there’s a faint crease between her brows like she’s still catching her breath—not from panic, not from regret, just from the intensity of feeling something real.
“You okay?” I ask quietly.
She nods, then smiles at me, small and sincere. “Yeah. I just feel…sticky,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
I huff a soft laugh, relieved by the normalcy of it. “You can use my shower,” I say. “If you want. I’ve got hot water. And clean towels. Promise.”
She studies my face for a second, like she’s making sure I mean it the way I say it. Then she nods. “I’d like that.”
I grab a towel from the hall closet and hand it to her, my fingers brushing hers. The contact still sends a quiet spark through me, but it’s different now—steadier. Less about want, more about closeness.
“Take your time,” I tell her. “I’ll be right here.”
When the bathroom door closes, I sit back on the bed and exhale.
The sound of the shower starting fills the space, steady and grounding.
I stare at my hands for a moment, then at the ceiling, replaying everything in fragments—her voice, the way she looked at me, the trust in her eyes.
There’s a nervous flutter in my chest, but underneath it is something solid.
Something good.
When the water shuts off, I stand before I even realize I’m moving. The door opens a minute later, steam spilling into the hallway. She steps out wrapped in the towel, hair damp and clinging to her shoulders, cheeks flushed from the heat.
She looks at me like she’s not sure what comes next.
“Hey,” I say gently.
“Hey,” she answers.
I reach for the brush on my dresser, hesitating just long enough to give her time to say no. “Do you want me to help with your hair?”
Her shoulders relax. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
She sits on the edge of the bed, turning so her back is to me. I sit behind her, careful to keep space until I know she’s comfortable. When I start brushing, I go slow—slower than necessary—untangling each section with more care than I’ve ever put into anything.
Her hair slides through my fingers, still warm, still faintly scented with my soap. She lets out a small sigh, and it feels like permission.
“You’re being really gentle,” she says.
“I know,” I reply. “I want to be.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they sound. I don’t rush to explain them. I don’t need to.
When I finish, I rest my hand briefly on her shoulder, grounding myself in the moment. She turns to look at me, eyes soft, something unreadable but good shining there.
“I don’t have anything to wear,” she says. “I wasn’t exactly planning on staying.”
I open my drawer and pull out a T-shirt—the soft one, the one that’s been washed a hundred times—and a pair of sweatpants. I hand them to her without thinking twice.
“Here,” I say. “They’re yours tonight.”
She smiles, holding them against her chest. “Thank you.”
When she comes back dressed in my clothes, they’re too big on her in that way that makes my chest ache. The sleeves swallow her hands. The waistband sits low on her hips. She looks like she belongs here in a way that scares me a little and comforts me more.
She climbs onto the bed beside me, curling into my side. I wrap an arm around her, and she fits there like she’s always known how.
We don’t talk much after that. We don’t need to. The moment feels complete—not because of what we did, but because of what comes after. The care. The quiet. The way we stay.
I rest my chin against the top of her head and think, distantly, that this is what it means to love someone—not just wanting them, but wanting them safe, warm, and at peace.
And for the first time, I don’t feel rushed by what comes next.
I feel ready to wait.