Chapter Eighteen #2
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard.
His forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still closed, his hand still cupping my face like something precious.
“That wasn’t practice,” I manage.
“No.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “It wasn’t.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what this means—for the arrangement, for us, for everything we’ve been pretending isn’t happening.
“Crew—”
The patio door swings open behind us.
“There you are!” Sadie’s voice cuts through the moment. “We paid the bill. You two ready to—” She stops. Takes in our position. The way Crew’s hand is still on my face. The way my fingers are still twisted in his shirt.
A slow grin spreads across her face. “Oh. Oh. My bad. Take your time.”
“We’re fine.” Crew steps back, but his hand slides down to catch mine, threading our fingers together. “We’re ready.”
Foster appears behind Sadie, takes one look at us, and smirks. “All good?”
“Shut up,” Crew says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking many things.” Foster claps him on the shoulder. “All of them supportive and encouraging.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The ride home is torture.
Sadie and Foster are up front, arguing about something—I’m not even sure what, their voices just background noise to the roaring in my ears. Crew and I are in the back seat, not touching.
Well. Almost not touching.
His hand rests on the seat between us. Mine rests next to it. Our pinkies are barely brushing—the smallest point of contact—and somehow it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced.
I keep replaying the kiss. The way he’d looked at me after, like I’d cracked something open in him he didn’t know how to close.
What happens when we get home?
Do we talk about it? Do we pretend it didn’t happen? Do we…
His pinky hooks around mine. Just barely. A question.
I hook back. An answer.
I feel him exhale beside me.
The city slides past the windows—neon signs and headlights blurring together—and all I can think about is the apartment waiting for us. The door closing behind us. The privacy of walls and no audience and a conversation we’ve been avoiding for weeks.
“You’re quiet,” Sadie says, twisting around in her seat. “Both of you. You okay?”
“Just tired,” I manage.
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Foster, don’t they seem quiet to you?”
“Leave them alone, Sadie.”
“I’m just saying—”
“And I’m just saying maybe don’t interrogate them in a moving vehicle.”
Crew’s thumb traces a slow circle on the back of my hand. My whole body feels like a live wire.
Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes and we’ll be home, and I’ll have to figure out what to say, how to act, whether this was a one-time slip or the beginning of something neither of us planned for.
Ten more minutes and everything changes.
Or nothing does.
I honestly don’t know which scares me more.
* * *
The elevator ride up to the tenth floor takes approximately seven hundred years.
Foster and Sadie said their goodbyes in the lobby—Foster with a knowing look at Crew, Sadie with a crushing hug and a whispered “call me tomorrow with details”—and now it’s just the two of us. Standing on opposite sides of the elevator. Not looking at each other.
The tension is so thick I could cut it with a knife and serve it with the leftover guacamole.
The doors slide open. Crew steps out first, keys already in hand. I follow him down the hall, watching the set of his shoulders, trying to read his body language.
He unlocks the door. Holds it open for me.
I step inside.
Murphy meows from the couch, annoyed at being left alone, but neither of us moves toward him.
The door clicks shut behind us.
And we just… stand there. In the dark apartment. Neither of us is reaching for the light.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he echoes.
Another silence. My heart is beating so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
“That kiss—”
“We should probably—”
We both stop. We both wait.
“You first,” he says.
I take a breath. “That kiss. On the patio. That wasn’t… that wasn’t part of the arrangement.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“So what was it?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I can barely see his face in the dim light filtering through the windows, but I can feel the weight of his gaze.
“I don’t know,” he finally says. “I don’t know what it was. I just know I’ve been wanting to do it for weeks, and I couldn’t stop myself anymore.”
My breath catches. “Weeks?”
“Maybe before that.”
I think about all the moments I’ve been cataloging. All the glances I thought I imagined. All the times his hand lingered on my back a beat too long.
So it wasn’t just me. He’s been feeling this too—this pull, this heat, this tension that’s been building since the first mandatory cuddle session.
But what is this, exactly?
He takes a step closer. Then another. Until he’s standing right in front of me, close enough to touch, not touching.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, and it sounds like it costs him something. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Since when do things go according to plan?”
His jaw tightens. “They’re supposed to. That’s the whole point of having a plan.”
I almost laugh. Of course that’s what’s bothering him—not the kissing itself, but the fact that the kissing wasn’t outlined in his roommate agreement.
“Crew.” I step closer, closing the gap between us. “We’re two adults who are attracted to each other. It doesn’t have to be complicated.”
His eyes darken. “What are you saying?”
What am I saying?
I’m saying he’s gorgeous, and I’m wound up, and we live together, and maybe—just maybe—this fake relationship should come with some real perks. No strings. No feelings. Just… blowing off steam with someone I trust.
People do that all the time, right?
“I’m saying…” I reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers brush the warm skin of his neck. “We’re already pretending to date. Would it be so bad if some parts weren’t pretend?”
He goes very still. “You want to add a physical component to the arrangement.”
“Geez, you make it sound so romantic.”
“Emmie.”
“I’m just saying.” I shrug, going for casual, like my heart isn’t pounding out of my chest. “You’re hot, I’m not blind, and we already have to sell this thing to your boss. Might as well enjoy ourselves.”
Something shifts in his expression. Hunger, barely leashed.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“It’ll complicate things.”
“Only if we let it.” I hold his gaze. “We’re both adults. We can keep it casual. Friends with fake benefits.”
His hand comes up, hovering near my face, like he’s fighting with himself.
I lean into it.
His palm cups my cheek, warm and steady, and I watch the last of his resistance crumble.
“Just physical,” he says. “Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” I agree.
It’s a lie, probably. Somewhere deep down, I think we both know it.
But right now, with his hand on my face and his mouth inches from mine, I can’t bring myself to care.
“I want to kiss you again,” he says, low and rough. “Not for practice. Not because someone’s watching. Just because I want to.”
“Okay,” I murmur, my voice soft and filled with need.