- nineteen - dana
I storm into the room, each step an angry stomp as I feel the rage bubbling under my skin. But beneath all that anger, there’s something else, something that makes my chest ache in a way I hate.
I’m upset.
I didn’t help him so he’d thank me. I didn’t sit through that entire miserable dinner just to get a pat on the back. But maybe, just maybe, a little less meanness from him wouldn’t have killed him. A little bit of kindness—not even kindness, just neutrality.
Hell, if he had just shut up, that would’ve been enough.
But no. He had to keep going.
He had to poke and prod and make it worse. He had to suck the last remaining energy out of me after I had already been drained.
And now, even after all that, he’s still following me around the room. I hear the soft, deliberate footsteps behind me. He’s staying quiet, at least. Thank God.
I whip around so fast he nearly collides with me. He halts, dark eyes widening slightly.
“What?” I snap.
He shifts on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh.”
Oh, now he’s cautious. Now he’s treating me like a bomb about to go off.
“I—” He exhales, glancing away before looking back at me. “I actually wanted to—” He clears his throat, voice dipping into something low and rough. “Thank you.”
I blink.
“And,” he continues, running a hand through his dark hair, voice soft but somehow still sharp, “I’m sorry. About being mean.”
His words settle in the air between us, heavy. His jaw is tight, like the apology physically pains him.
And God, I hate that I don’t hate him as much as I should. Because he looks—
No. No, I refuse to acknowledge whatever the hell that is.
Instead, my body moves before my brain does. I grab the nearest pillow.
“What the—?” He barely gets the words out before I smack him across the chest.
His eyes widen in pure, genuine shock.
Good.
Another whack. And another.
“Are you—” He stumbles back, hands raised. “Dana—”
“You!” WHACK. “Absolute!” WHACK. “Menace!” WHACK.
He dodges the next hit, stepping back, hands still up like I’m armed with something lethal. “I was trying to—”
WHACK.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
How dare he. How dare he open his filthy mouth and talk to me again.
After everything, after that whole goddamn dinner where I had to sit there, swallowing down every sharp word, every insult from his snobby mother, every fake giggle from that plastic girl draped all over him.
After he kept fucking with my patience on the way to our room.
“I was—”
WHACK.
His lips twitch. His shoulders stiffen.
Oh my God. He’s trying not to laugh.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”
“I’m not—” His voice wobbles. “I swear I’m not—”
“You think you can just thank me, and it’ll erase everything?” WHACK. “You think I’ll just forget what you said?” WHACK. “I told you I was done with you!”
His lips press together, but a muffled laugh still escapes, a low, rough sound. His serious expression is cracking, amusement slipping through like water through his fingers.
Oh, he thinks this is funny?
I lunge forward for another hit—
And my foot catches on the damn rug.
The world tilts.
My brain barely has time to register what’s happening before I go crashing forward, straight into Alex’s solid chest. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs, and suddenly, gravity is betraying me in the worst way possible.
Before I can even think about stopping myself, I’m—
Oh my God.
I’m on his lap.
No. No, no, no.
Alex freezes beneath me, hands hovering in the air like he’s afraid to touch me, his entire body going rigid. I, on the other hand, am going through all five stages of grief in record time.
This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.
I feel my entire soul shrivelling up inside me. My hands are braced against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath my fingertips. My thighs are pressed against his, and his body heat is impossible to ignore.
I think my spirit is actively trying to leave my body.
Somewhere in the background, I hear a soft, choked noise. It takes me a horrifying second to realize—
Oh my God.
He’s holding in laughter.
I snap my head up, and sure enough, his lips are twitching. His jaw is tight, his shoulders shaking slightly, his dark eyes practically gleaming with amusement.
I want to die.
I want to cease existing. I want to rewind time and never have entered this room. I want to hit him again. I want to scream. I want to sink into the floor and disappear.
“Listen to me, Archer.” His voice is softer now, lower. “Please.”
I swallow, trying to ignore the way my stupid heart reacts to that one word.
He exhales, moving hair over my eyes to the side of my face.
“I know I’m an asshole. I know I should’ve handled tonight differently.
And I know—” he hesitates, then forces himself to keep going, “—that I don’t deserve for you to keep giving me chances.
But I don’t want you to be mad at me. Not like this. ”
I stare at him, my chest rising and falling too fast.
“Thank you,” he says, eyes locking onto mine.
“For today. For sitting through all that bullshit. For taking all of it—for me. You didn’t have to.
You shouldn’t have had to. And I was—” he drags a hand through his hair, voice rough, “—I was a dick about it. But you—” he swallows. “You made it easier."
I hate that my breath catches. I hate that he looks sincere. I hate that I still don’t hate him as much as I should.
I swallow past the lump in my throat, then reach for the pillow again.
“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
WHACK.
It’s not as forceful this time. Not when my mind’s still running circles around his words, and my chest isn’t as tight. But I keep my eyes locked on his, pretending like it doesn’t matter.
It does matter, though.
His apology, his words—they do something to me. I hate it. I want to scream at him again, to throw another pillow at his face and remind myself of the reasons I’m angry.
But for the first time since I’ve met him, it doesn’t feel like I’m fighting just to fight. It feels like I’m trying to hold onto something, something that could actually make things better.
And that’s what terrifies me the most.
I stare into his beautiful dark eyes and gulp. I think I might be getting into trouble.
. . .
The room still looks way too couple-y, in the same state we'd left it in. The beds are still pushed together, making it look like we’re some picture-perfect couple, complete with photo frames and decorative pillows. It's all so cheesy.
I could change everything back to normal now, but I am so tired that I can barely lift a feather.
I glance over at my little kitten and sigh softly. Lord Muffin, my ginger ball of fluff, is sprawled out in her little bed, blissfully unaware of any awkward tension.
I’ve just showered and slipped into a loose t-shirt and sleeping shorts. I stare at the pseudo double bed for a moment.
Alex is still in the shower, taking forever as usual. I can hear the water running, the soft murmur of him shifting around in there.
I don’t have the energy to put the beds back in their normal position, so I decide to wait for Alex.
I’ll just lie here for a bit and try to stay awake until he returns. The sound of the shower running in the background is oddly soothing, and soon, I feel my eyelids growing heavier.
The soft rustle of the blankets and the quiet rhythm of the water become lullaby, and before I even realize it, I’m slipping into a warm, exhausted sleep.
. . .
I wake up slowly, the warmth around me pulling me into consciousness. At first, I think I’m dreaming—maybe I’m in my own bed, safe and cozy.
But then I feel it.
A hard chest beneath my cheek, the steady rise and fall of breath under me. A body so close, so warm, I can practically feel every inch of it pressing against me. I nuzzle into it, liking how it feels.
Mhm.
As I shift, a few things start to click into place.
First, the fact that I’m not alone. Second, the heat radiating from the body beneath me. I can feel the warmth of his skin against mine, and it’s... nice. Too nice. A little too nice, actually.
I pull away just slightly, my eyes fluttering open to try and make sense of what’s happening, but I immediately freeze.
Oh my God.
This is not my bed. This is not my space. And, oh my God, my face is buried in Alex’s bare chest.
And then—holy shit—he’s shirtless.
I feel my heartbeat speed up. My skin flushes with heat. I try to pull back, but my body seems to be stuck in some sort of trance. My cheek still rests on his chest, his skin smooth and warm beneath me.
I dare to peek lower and—oh. My eyes widen as I notice that he’s only in boxers.
And then, a sharp realization: his hand. His hand is resting on me, but not on my back or my waist. No, it’s lower. Much lower.
It’s on my—oh my God.
His hand is on my right buttcheek, my sleeping shorts barely covering anything.
I suck in a breath, trying to ignore the way my pulse is pounding in my ears. I can feel every inch of him against me. The skin-to-skin contact is. . . delicious.
My stomach clenches.
I want to move, to push away, to run and pretend this didn’t happen, but for some reason, I can’t bring myself to.
But, do I really want to move away?
Hell to the fucking no.
I swallow thickly as I feel tingles run down my spine.
It feels. . . good. I can’t deny it. I feel like I could live here forever, nestled against him like this, skin to skin. The warmth, the closeness. . . it’s intoxicating.
But no. I can’t. This is Alex. My roommate. This is the guy who makes me want to scream at him one minute and laugh at him the next. This is the guy who pushes every single one of my buttons.
I try to take a deep breath to calm myself, to sort through the mess of thoughts whirling around in my head. And that’s when I hear it.
His breath.
And then, as if it’s a damn slow-motion, I realize he’s awake. And he’s watching me.
His dark eyes are fixed on me, amused, and oh-so-calm. Almost lazy. It’s like he knew exactly what I was doing the entire time. He’s not even trying to pretend he’s asleep.
And that hand? Yeah, it’s still on my ass.
And a moment later, he squeezes it.
Oh my God.
My heart does another wild flip in my chest. My stomach clenches.
He continues to watch my face lazily.
“Alex,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s all I can manage, because right now, I’m way too embarrassed to even form a full sentence.
His lips twitch. “Mornin’,” he drawls, the amusement clear in his voice. I like his morning voice so much.
“What are you doing?” I stammer, referring to his hand placement, trying to sound angry, but it comes out breathless.
Alex smirks, leaning back like he’s perfectly relaxed, not a care in the world. “I’m in my own bed,” he shrugs casually. “You’re the one who climbed on me.”
My eyes widen. “I—what?” I feel like I could combust from embarrassment. “I didn’t—this wasn’t—”
“Uh-huh,” he interrupts, a grin creeping across his face. “Sure, Archer.”
Before I can say anything else, he reaches down, his hand suddenly smacking my ass with a loud pop.
I freeze.
“Now get up,” he says, his voice a mockingly lazy drawl. “I’ve got places to be.”
I just stare at him, my mind short-circuiting. “You—did you—”
He winks, the cocky bastard.
The audacity. The nerve. I don’t even know what to do with myself. My heart’s still racing from the shock of it all, but now, his arrogance is pissing me off.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pushing myself off him, my face burning with frustration and. . . something else I don’t want to think about.
How did we go from enemies to friend-ish friends to playing lovers to cuddling and groping?
God, help me.
Of all the people, Alex—my roommate, my personal tormentor—has me in a position where I don’t know whether to slap him or kiss him.