TWENTY-NINE #2
A thoughtful minute or two passes, and Jordie breaks a cookie in half and offers me the bigger piece.
“Jordie, this is my third cookie in five minutes,” I say, taking a bite anyway. The gooey chocolate melts at the corner of my lips.
Before I can reach for a napkin, she leans in—gentle, certain—and cradles my chin in her hand. Then, with the softest swipe of her thumb, she brushes away the chocolate.
She doesn’t pull away. Just lingers there for a beat. Thumb resting beneath my bottom lip, eyes on mine.
She watches me chew. And in a voice so quiet it’s almost a thought, she says, “I’m glad you came.”
Then she leans back.
And I’m left wondering how the hell I ever thought this was a bad idea.
We’re tangled in a cozy mess of blankets, passing back and forth the nearly empty tub of strawberry ice cream that is now basically pink soup. The only light comes from the TV’s glow and the warmth of a corner lamp.
It’s well past midnight now—the kind of late that blurs the edges of reality. Softer thoughts. Thinner filters. Lower guards. We’ve sat through two rom-coms. Jordie kept whispering ridiculous commentary during the steamier scenes, and I kept laughing like I wasn’t on the verge of a breakdown.
She tips her chin towards the screen as the couple in the movie tumbles into bed with perfect lighting and zero coordination issues. “Do people actually make out like that?”
I scoff. “Only if they have a choreographer and a wind machine.”
“Honestly, I’d settle for someone who doesn’t elbow me in the face.” She scrapes at the bottom of the ice cream tub, then adds almost carelessly, “Been a while since I had that kind of problem.”
I raise a brow. “What kind of problem?”
“Y’know. The stuff that leads to laundry disasters.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Wait, how long has it been since you’ve done . . . laundry?”
She keeps her gaze on the TV, nonchalantly. “Two years.”
“Was that with the surgeon?”
Her expression twists, caught somewhere between amusement and frustration. “God, no. Alec and I broke up way longer ago than that. Last time was just a one-night stand. Not exactly laundry-worthy.”
“That bad?”
“Wasn’t just him.” She hesitates, glancing at me before looking away again. “One night is too short to . . . I dunno, figure out what the other person likes.”
“You don’t think it’s possible to be good right off the bat?”
Jordie gives me a slow look, like I’ve just admitted to believing in sex horoscopes. “Callum Han, are you telling me all your sexual partners walked away five-star satisfied?”
I feign modesty. “Mostly five-star rated. There may have been one isolated case. My brain decided to recite anesthetic protocols mid . . . operation.”
Her laugh bursts out, loud and unrestrained. “You started running through intubation guidelines during sex?”
I grimace. “Oral airway positioning.”
She’s doubled over now, her laughter sharp and bright, the kind that makes me grin even though I’m the punchline.
When she finally quiets, she exhales with a smile. “I don’t know. I think I’m the problem.”
“Why would you think that?”
She waves her spoon in the air, like she’s trying to dismiss the words as soon as they land. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”
But it does. Because she’s not looking at me anymore. Just staring down at the puddle of melted pink at the bottom of the tub, shoulders hunched as if she’s trying to disappear inside them.
“It matters if it’s making you look like that.” I nudge her foot gently with mine. “Talk to me.”
“It just takes me a while to get there. And most guys . . .” She gestures vaguely. “. . . don’t have the patience. They’re just there to scratch an itch and call it a day. So yeah, doesn’t exactly scream fireworks.”
“No. But it sure as hell makes them sound like a busted sparkler.”
When I reach for her hand, she lets me take it.
“I always get the same lines,” she says after a moment. Her voice shifts into an exaggerated bro-drawl: “‘You’re overthinking it.’ ‘Just relax,’ or ‘Honestly, you’re kind of high maintenance.’ Like I’m a vending machine that needs a thump.”
“You’re not a machine,” I say, brushing my thumb across her knuckles. “You just haven’t had someone who gave a shit about learning what makes you feel safe. Or good. Or wanted. The right person wouldn’t mind taking their time.”
She blinks at that, like she wasn’t expecting it. Her lips part, then close again. Eventually, her gaze drops to our hands.
“Maybe I just haven’t found the right person, then.”
There’s something in her voice. A careful ache stitched into the words.
I try to nudge us back to levity. “Hey, you’re not alone in the not-doing-laundry department.”
She looks at me like she finds that hard to believe. “How long’s it been for you?”
“Since Claudia left. Well, technically, before that, even. Eight? Ten months? A drought, really.”
“Drought? Please. That’s just normal Townsville summer. Mine’s a climate emergency. The Bureau of Meteorology should issue a warning.”
I give her hand a small, reassuring squeeze. “Guess we’ve both got some catching up to do.”
The tub of ice cream wobbles in her grip. For a second, it tilts like it’s about to slip from her fingers.
I take the nearly empty ice cream tub from her hands and set it on her side of the table.
When I lean back, the space between us feels too small, the air too heavy. She looks at me, eyes thoughtful, trying to answer a question she’s not ready to ask. Her breath stutters, catching in her throat, and my gaze dips to her lips—soft, flushed, right there.
I lean in, so close I can taste the air between us.
“Jordie,” I breathe, the rest caught behind my teeth—what are you doing to me?