Chapter 15 #2
“Wait, don’t move,” I say. “It’s not horrible, but you’re making it worse.”
“Don’t blame me, you’re the one attached to my head now,” she shoots back.
My eyes roll so hard I swear they slam into the back of my skull. “I’m trying to fix it.”
“By fusing us together?”
“Just—come closer,” I say, understanding that I have an anxious woman who is now tethered to me in the most inconvenient way. “Lean in. I can see it better.”
She hesitates. “This feels like a bad idea. Like we need professionals.”
“Probably,” I admit. “But it’s already happening. And if you know professionals who are on stand-by specifically to get hair out of a watch, then we need to find you new friends to hang out with.”
“It’s a niche market.” She exhales and steps closer, her forehead almost brushing my shoulder. “Just, please be careful.”
“Promise,” I whisper as I tilt my head, fingers working carefully at the caught strands.
“Look, I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m trying not to freak out.”
“Don’t worry,” I say softly. “I’ve got you.”
She’s so close now I can see the tiny freckles across her nose. Feel the warmth of her breath. Smell that heady, familiar scent that’s been stuck in my jacket all day.
My heart thuds inside my chest, and she’s so close, I know she hears it. It sounds like kids’ footsteps running in the hallway. I’m just lucky it didn’t forget its job.
“Almost there,” I whisper, my fingers careful as I work the last stubborn strands free. A few pieces of her hair slip loose first, brushing her cheek, soft and uncontained, like they’ve been waiting for this moment, too.
She exhales, then laughs—and it catches me completely off guard.
It’s not the polite laugh she gives customers. Not the restrained one she uses when she’s trying to keep things together. This one is loud and unguarded, bursting out of her like she forgot, if only for a second, to be careful. It’s real.
Her head tips back, shoulders loosening as the rest of her hair finally spills free, and she looks lighter somehow—like something unknotted inside her along with it.
I can’t stop staring. At the way her eyes crinkle.
At the way she presses her lips together afterward, still smiling, like she’s surprised by herself.
At the way the curve of her neck is exposed, soft skin catching the light, and how the urge to trace it hits me out of nowhere.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard her laugh like this before. And the fact that I’m standing here—close enough to feel it, close enough to know I’m part of the reason—does something dangerous to my chest.
I smile back, slower this time, softer. My hands don’t move away right away. They linger, fingertips grazing her shoulder, the barest contact, like I’m memorizing the shape of her. Our eyes meet and hold, neither of us in any hurry to look away.
Something in the air around us shifts. I can feel it in the way the air thickens between us, charged and humming, like the world has leaned in to listen.
“I’m free! Thank you,” she says, breathless and bright as she steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck.
This simple and impulsive act catches me completely off guard.
For half a second, I forget how to function. Forget where my hands are supposed to go. Forget that this is casual, that this is probably just gratitude, that I shouldn’t read into it.
But then instinct takes over.
My arms wrap around her waist, pulling her in, and the fit is too perfect to ignore. Her laughter fades into something quieter as she settles against me, and suddenly, there’s nowhere else in the world I want to be.
If this is a moment I get with her closeness and warmth, her heartbeat pressed right where I can feel it, and she’s okay with it? Yeah. I’m more than good.
She lifts her head just enough to look at me, her face inches from mine now, her expression softer, searching. Her hands stay looped behind my neck, thumbs brushing my skin like they’re testing something.
Neither of us lets go.
Our breathing slows so we’re synchronized. Her gaze flicks down to my mouth, then back up again, like she’s asking a question without saying it out loud.
I swear, if either one of us moves even a fraction closer…something irreversible is about to happen.
I lift one hand, giving myself time to stop if I need to, but I know I won’t.
My finger traces along her jawline, slow and deliberate, like I’m learning her by touch.
She inhales sharply, the sound catching, and then she lets out a soft moan that goes straight through me.
Not loud. Not performative. Instead, it’s unfiltered and honest.
Her eyes flutter, her head tipping instinctively into my hand, like she trusts me there. That does something dangerous to my self-control.
I lean in, close enough now that our noses brush, our breaths tangling.
I watch her—watch the way her lips part, the way her hands tighten at the back of my neck, anchoring us together.
I don’t rush it. I want this moment to last. I want to remember exactly how she looks right before everything changes.
I slant my mouth over hers, slow and careful, giving her time to pull away.
She doesn’t.
The kiss is soft at first, almost reverent, like we’re both afraid of breaking it.
I’ve stared at her lips for a few weeks now, the last thing I want to do is rush my way through this.
Then she sighs into me, and I finally taste her—warm and sweet, somehow softer than the magnolia scent she wears, like that was only ever a hint of what’s underneath.
This kiss? It’s better than I imagined.
Her lips move with mine, unhurried but sure, and the world narrows down to this—her mouth, her breath, the way she melts into me like she’s been waiting for this, too.
I kiss her again, deeper now, just enough to make my chest ache. This is the kind of kiss that rewrites things.
And I don’t mean to pull her closer, but my hand tightens at her waist anyway, instinctive and sure, drawing her into me until there’s no space left to pretend we’re being careful.
She makes a sound, a low groan at the back of her throat, and then her fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to make my breath hitch.
I take this as my cue and guide her back a step, then another, until her shoulders meet the wall behind her. Not rushed. Not rough. Just decisive. Like we both know exactly where this is going and neither of us wants to slow it down anymore.
Her hands stay in my hair, grounding me there, and I lean in, my lips tracing along her jaw, down the side of her neck. She tilts her head automatically, giving me access, her pulse fluttering beneath my mouth like it knows I’m paying attention.
I kiss her there—slow, lingering—letting the moment stretch, letting her breathe me in.
She sighs and I’m undone. I smile against her skin before making my way back up, my mouth following the curve of her neck, her jaw, until I’m right there again.
Close enough to see the way her lashes fan against her cheeks.
Close enough to feel her breath catch when she realizes I’m not done with her, not yet.
My forehead rests against hers for a beat. Just one.
Then I kiss her again. It’s deeper this time. Her lips part against mine like they’ve learned the rhythm already, and I pull her in closer, her back slightly arched and her body braced between mine and the wall like she belongs there. And the terrifying thing? It feels so right.
This isn’t the kind of kiss that just “happens.” Not in my world. It changes things. And neither of us is pretending otherwise.
And then, I think we both hear it at the same time: clattering that sounds like it could be a thousand miles away, yet also in the next room. The make-out haze clears, and I realize we’re hearing the dulcet sound of a key turning in the lock.
We spring apart like we’ve been caught doing something far more dangerous than detangling a watch. Which, considering the way that moment escalated, we were.
“Mom?” Theo’s voice comes from the hallway, followed by the sound of sneakers on hardwood.
He rounds the corner, stops short when he sees me—and his whole face lights up. “Sawyer!”
“Hey,” I say, still smoothing down my hair, feeling disheveled and busted. Busted bad. “Surprise.”
His eyes rock between his mother and me. “What are you doing here?”
“I brought you something.” I nod toward the hoodies folded on the chair, grateful I have an excuse because other words would fail me right now.
I catch Juliette’s gaze and we share a moment between us, the kind of knowing that can happen only after that kind of kiss, before turning our attention back to her main man.
His eyes go straight to them. “For me? You brought me two hoodies?”
“First things first,” Juliette says, hands on her hips. “Why are you home? You’re supposed to be at a sleepover.”
“Mitch got sick,” Theo says. “Ate too many slices of pizza, then he had half the tub of ice cream. So I came home.”
I shudder. “Is Mitch on a mission?”
Theo considers my words. “I think he’s only allowed sugar when friends come over.”
“You came home alone?” Juliette continues, in Mom mode. While I’m still stuck on the fact that Mitch is only allowed sugar when friends are over.
“Well, Mitch’s mom walked me across the street and up to the building.”
Juliette throws her arms in the air. “Oh. Well. That’s totally fine, then.” She looks at me. “Next time, could you tell me when you’re coming home? Anything could happen between the door and upstairs.”
Theo rolls his eyes. “Mom, it’s literally twenty steps.”
I shrug. “He’s a boy.”
She groans. “You are not helping.”
Theo is already back on the important part. “You brought me hoodies.”
“Two of them,” I say. “One is signed by the whole team. Don’t wear that one. Ever.”
“Ever?” He gasps.
“Ever,” I confirm. “That one’s for keeping. Or selling one day if it’s worth anything.”
“And this one?” He lifts the other.
“That one’s for wearing.”
He beams. “This is the best. Thank you!”
Juliette watches him, trying not to smile—and failing. And somehow, standing in her living room with her kid clutching my gifts like they’re treasure, everything feels exactly where it’s supposed to be.
“Oh, man,” Theo says, clutching the signed hoodie like it’s a priceless artifact. He grabs my hand. “Come on. You have to see my room.”
I look at Juliette, silently asking permission.
“Honey,” she says. “Sawyer might have to go.”
“I can stay a few more minutes,” I say quickly.
Her arms cross. Slowly. Dangerously. “But you told me you stopped here because you were passing by.”
I feel heat rushing to my cheeks. “Yes?”
“So that implies you were on your way somewhere.”
“Uh…” No way out of this one, Sawyer. “Yeah.”
“And if you were on your way somewhere, doesn’t that mean you should go there?”
I swallow. She’s onto me. “I mean,” I say, scrambling, “I was on my way to drop off hoodies.”
“Which is here.”
“Yes.”
“So you weren’t actually on your way anywhere else.”
“Not…really.”
We stare at each other until the corners of her lips begin curving upward. Theo tugs my arm. “I feel like you’re having a face-off, but I need to decide where to hang my hoodie.”
Theo tugs me down the hallway, still narrating at top speed about optimal hoodie placement and whether the signed one should be hung, framed, or guarded by lasers. I let him pull me along, but my feet lag just enough that I steal one last look back.
Juliette stands in the living room, arms crossed again, but it’s not defensive—it’s more like she’s holding herself together. There’s a smile tugging at her mouth that she’s absolutely failing to hide, and her eyes flick to mine.
My heart stutters as I lift my brows just slightly. A silent you okay? There’s a second that passes before her lips press together, then curve. She gives me a look that says don’t get cocky and you’re not wrong all at the same time. Which is new.
Theo tugs harder, dragging me into his room, talking about hanger spacing and why navy goes with literally everything. I realize my chest feels too full for how casual this was supposed to be.
Because that look? That was not polite. That was not just gratitude for hoodies and detangled hair.
That was chemistry. That was awareness.
And suddenly, the idea of showing up again doesn’t feel brave or complicated or scary. It feels obvious.
I glance back down the hallway once more, to see if she’s still there. She isn’t, so I quickly pull out my phone and text the only person I can think of right now. The one guy who, if he was here, would be giving me an earful of advice right now.
I think I’m in trouble, Dad, but it’s the good kind…