Chapter 7
Kade dug up an old deck of cards. We played two hands of Rummy, but I couldn’t focus–my eyes kept drifting to his hands, graceful and sure as they shuffled the deck.
I’d seen him do it hundreds of times. But tonight, the flicker of candlelight made every movement magnetic, the air around us heavy.
Every touch, every glance felt dangerous.
“You gon’ play or just stare at the cards?” he’d asked, and I’d snapped my attention back to my hand, cheeks burning.
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re losing.”
“I’m thinking.”
He’d smirked at me, that slow, lazy smirk that made my stomach flip, and I’d thrown my cards down. “I’m bored with this.”
“You just don’t wanna lose.”
“I don’t wanna play anymore. There’s a difference.”
He’d gathered up the cards without arguing, and I got up from the floor where we’d been sitting, my legs stiff from being folded too long. I needed to do something other than sit across from him, hyperaware of every breath he took.
Now I was standing in the kitchen, staring into the open cabinet as if it held the answers to all my problems. It didn’t. It held canned soup, crackers, and a box of tea bags that looked like they’d been there since 2015.
“Ain’t shit in there,” Kade asked from the couch, sipping from the bottle of Remy, emptying it.
“I know.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Looking.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
He shifted, the couch creaking under his weight, and somehow I felt him watching me again, even when my back was turned.
His eyes tracked me constantly, like he was trying to decode me.
But I couldn’t stop noticing him either-every time I wasn’t looking, I felt as if he were right there beneath my skin. That was the worst of it.
I grabbed the box of tea, just to have something to do with my hands. “You want tea?”
“Storm, it’s like a hunnid fucking degrees in here.”
“So?”
“So I don’t want hot tea when I’m already sweating.”
I turned around to look at him, and my breath caught.
All showered and smelling good. He’d pushed up the sleeves of his black tee at some point, and his forearms were on full display–strong, defined, and tattooed, the kind of arms that looked like they could pick you up without effort.
Which I knew they could, because I’d seen him move furniture, carry heavy equipment, lift things that would’ve had me calling for help.
But I’d never let myself think about it like this.
About what those arms would feel like wrapped around me, holding me, and pulling me close.
“Storm.”
I blinked. “Hmm?”
“You good?”
That damn question again. “I’m fine,” I replied, turning back to the cabinet. “Just a little lit.”
“Yeah. I can tell.”
I could hear the amusement in his voice, heat prickling under my skin. It made me want to throw the tea box at him just to break the tension, but instead I shoved it back on the shelf and slammed the cabinet, the bang echoing the storm in my chest.
The rain was still coming down in sheets, hammering the roof, punctuated by cracks of thunder that made the whole cabin shudder.
The wind howled through the trees, and every so often something would scrape against the side of the house–a branch, probably–and it sounded like the storm was trying to claw its way inside.
I walked back to the living room, but I didn’t sit down.
I couldn’t. Sitting meant being still, and being still meant thinking, and thinking was dangerous right now.
“You’re gonna wear a hole in the floor,” Kade said.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are, though. Relax.”
I stopped, crossing my arms. “What do you want me to do? We’ve played cards. We ate some bullshit. There’s no TV, no WiFi, no cell service. We’re literally trapped here with nothing to do.”
“We could talk.”
“We’ve been talking.”
“Nah, niggas been making small talk. That’s different.” I looked at him, and he was leaning back on the couch, one arm stretched along the back, his legs spread in that way guys sit when they’re comfortable. He looked so at ease, so unbothered, and it made me irrationally annoyed.
“Okay. Talk about what?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Real shit.”
“We talk about real shit all the time.”
“Do we, though?”
The question hung between us, heavy and electric, and I realized he was right.
We talked about everything–work, family, friends, stupid stuff that made us laugh–but never about this.
About the way the air seemed charged when we were alone.
About his hand on my knee in the car, how my skin burned under his touch.
About the fact that I’d loved him for years, afraid to let the truth slip out.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I said finally.
“How about tell a nigga why you’ve been acting weird all night.”
My stomach dropped. “I haven’t been acting weird.”
“Storm.”
“Kade.”
He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his shirt pulling tight across his chest. I forced myself to look up at his face, hoping it would be easier, but my breath caught.
His eyes were locked on mine, dark and intense in the candlelight, and I felt pinned, unable to move.
My hand fidgeted on my knee, betraying my nerves.
“You’ve been jumpy as hell since we got here,” he said quietly. “You can’t sit still. You keep looking at me like–” He paused, jaw clenched, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
“Like what?”
“Forget it.”
“No. Like what?”
He just looked at me, silent but intense, the weight of it pressing down so hard it felt like my insides were shaking.
I wanted to run, joke, do anything but sit here and face it.
It was too much-the pretending, the holding back, the wanting.
All of it boiling up inside me, right there in the charged quiet.
I watched his jaw tighten. “Come sit down.”
It wasn’t a command, exactly. But it wasn’t a request either. It was something in between, and my body moved before my brain could catch up. I walked over to the couch and sat down, leaving a careful foot of space between us. Of course, he noticed and laughed, echoing through the cabin.
“You ain’t gotta sit all the way over there,” he said.
I leaned back against the couch, pulled my legs up under me, but I was still tense.
We sat there in silence for a minute, the storm raging outside, the candles flickering on the coffee table.
I could feel the heat of him next to me, could hear him breathing, and it was taking everything in me not to look at him.
“You remember last winter we got stuck in my crib during that ice storm?” Kade asked suddenly.
I glanced over at him. “Yeah. Why?”
“You weren’t like this then.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
Because we weren’t alone. Because his cousin had been there, passed out in the other room. “It just was,” I shot back.
He was quiet for a second, then he shifted, turning toward me slightly. His arm was still stretched along the back of the couch, and his fingers were close enough to my shoulder that I could feel the heat of them. “You’ve been my best friend for six years,” he said.
“I know.”
“I know you better than anybody, Stormie.”
“I know that too.”
“So why the fuck does it feel like you’re tryna hide from me right now?”
My throat tightened. “I’m not.”
“You are.” Kade’s voice was low, rough, and it sent a shiver down my spine. “Look at me.”
I turned my head, and the space between us felt impossibly small. His eyes were dark, searching mine, and I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stare at him and wonder how we’d gotten here. “I’m not hiding,” I whispered.
“Then what are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” His fingers brushed my shoulder, and I sucked in a breath.
The rain pounded against the windows, and the wind howled.
The candles flickered and danced, casting shadows across his face, and I realized I was about to lose my mind if something didn’t happen soon.
But I didn’t know what to say, so I just sat there, staring at him with my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it.
And he stared back, his hand still resting on my shoulder like he was waiting for me to say it. Like he already knew my pussy was throbbing.