33 RYAN
RYAN
Tasting cherries in the kitchen
I ring the doorbell. And almost immediately, there’s a loud thud from inside, followed by a string of swearing that is… impressively creative.
I blink at the door.
“…Okay,” I mutter.
Something else crashes. There’s a very distinct oh no oh no oh no coming from the other side.
I shake my head, trying not to smile.
Ten minutes ago, Maddy called me, voice tight and breathless, and said, I need you to come over. Like. Now. No explanation. Just that. So I have no idea what I’m walking into.
I shift my weight, waiting, and think vaguely that she’s probably flooded the house or something, but then the door flies open and I immediately have to press my lips together, trying not to burst out into laughter.
She looks… wrecked. Hair sticking out her ponytail everywhere. Like, not cute-messy—actual messy. Her apron is soaked, her clothes are splattered with water and sauce. There’s a streak of red on her cheek. Tomato sauce.
Of course.
She stands there, out of breath, clearly trying very hard to look like this is all completely under control.
“Thanks for coming,” she says, too calm. “I just have a minor problem.”
I can't help but raise my eyebrows. “Minor?”
She sighs. “Dad and Noah are coming home later, and the rest didn't pick up,” she takes a break from talking so fast. “So…”
I snort before I can stop myself and step past her. “You’ve got sauce on your face.”
Her hand flies up immediately. “Still?!”
I laugh quietly as I move around her, heading toward the kitchen and then I stop.
The beach house I’m used to—normally spotless, calm—is gone.
Completely gone. In its place is absolute chaos.
Water is everywhere. The floor is soaked, towels are scattered across the floor.
The kitchen island looks like a disaster zone; empty containers, open jars, and half-used ingredients spread across the surface like someone tried to cook three different meals at once.
The sink is leaking. Badly. A steady stream of water drips down the cabinet doors, collecting on the floor before slowly creeping outward.
I stand there for a second, taking it all in.
She actually flooded the house.
“How…did you even manage this?” I say, almost impressed.
“Do not,” she says immediately. “Do not ask.”
I laugh as I shrug off my jacket, draping it over a chair and crouch in front of the sink, reaching under the cabinet until my fingers find the valve.
Water is still running somewhere inside the pipes.
I twist the handle, but nothing happens.
I try another pipe, shifting my shoulder deeper under the cabinet, and the stream of water splashes harder against the metal, ricocheting straight onto me.
Cold water soaks through my white shirt almost instantly, the fabric clinging to my skin.
“I gotta ask,” I say, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh as I glance back at her, “how did you manage this?”
“I… genuinely have no idea,” she admits, and a small laugh escapes her too. “I tried to cook.”
“Yeah, I can tell you tried,” I say, shaking my head, pushing damp hair back before reaching under the sink again. Another splash hits my sleeve, then my shoulder, and at this point the shirt is beyond saving.
I keep fumbling with the pipes, searching for the right angle, the right pressure—anything that might finally stop the water.
After another second, I pause and look back at her. “Do you maybe have tape? Or anything useful, really.”
She nods quickly. “Yes—wait.”
She disappears for a moment and comes back holding duct tape and a small wrench. “Will this help?”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Thanks.”
I turn back to the sink, tighten the loose joint as much as I can, wrap the tape carefully around the seam, and test the valve again. This time there is silence.
I let out a careful breath and lean back on my heels. “Okay,” I say. “I think that’s it.”
Her shoulders drop in visible relief. “Thank God. I was afraid the house would sink and become one with the ocean.”
I laugh as I push myself to my feet, the wet fabric of my shirt cool against my skin. And when I look up, she’s staring, but not at my face.
Lower.
Her eyes are settled on my chest.
For a second she doesn’t even seem to realize she’s doing it, her gaze lingering too long before her eyes snap upward, cheeks flushing pink as she quickly looks away.
A slow smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth.
“Well,” she says quickly, words tripping over each other as she awkwardly leans back against the counter, “thank you. I’ll clean the rest up. You don’t have to—uh—stay.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” I say, standing.
She frowns. “What?”
I shrug, already grabbing a towel. “Come on, let's tackle this mess you made.”
She hits my arm lightly. Then smiles.
And just like that, we’re knee-deep in it. We put on music, some random playlist that fills the space.
Maddy strips off her ruined apron, grabs more towels and starts on the floor while I attack the sink. Dishes clink. Water runs. The chaos slowly starts to look manageable. I wash some pots and pans while she’s on her knees beside the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair still a mess.
“You missed a spot,” she says, standing up and leaning her hip against the counter, smirking at me.
I scuff. “I did not.”
She just raises an eyebrow.
I swipe a handful of bubbles from the pan I’m scrubbing and flick them straight in her direction. A few drops land square on her shirt.
“Hey!” she laughs, swiping at the spot.
“Oops,” I say, not even pretending to feel bad.
She opens the tap, runs her hand under it and flicks water into my face.
“Madelyn Hazel Gracelyn,” I say, voice low with mock warning, “you did not just do that.”
She grins. “What are you gonna do about it?”
Oh, she has made a big mistake.
I grab the sponge—still loaded with suds—and fling a perfect arc of bubbles right at her shoulder.
“Oh, it’s on,” she says, lunging for the sink again.
The next thirty seconds dissolve into absolute chaos.
She grabs the other sponge and retaliates immediately, sending water splashing everywhere—across the counter, the floor, and directly at me. I duck behind the kitchen island for cover, barely avoiding the worst of it, before popping back out again and flicking a handful of soapy water toward her.
We’re both laughing loudly. Real ones. The kind that steals the air right out of your lungs and makes your stomach hurt. I love it when she laughs like that.
“Truce!” she shouts between giggles, throwing her hands up. “You’re going to ruin my hair!”
I ignore her and lunge anyway. She yelps and tries to dodge, but her feet slip slightly on the wet tile—and my arms catch her quickly, steadying her before she can actually fall. One hand lands firmly at her waist while the other braces behind her back, pulling her upright again.
And suddenly she’s very close. And the tension in the room rises. My grip tightens instinctively as I draw her a little closer to keep her from slipping again. Her palms land against my chest, and the contact sends something sharp and electric straight through me.
And just like that, everything stops. The laughter fades from the room, leaving only the quiet hum of music somewhere in the background.
Friends by Chase Atlantic is softly drumming through the room.
Seriously? I thought that only happened in movies. It’s definitely not helping.
Her breathing is quick and mine isn’t fucking better.
Suddenly all I can really see is the blonde girl standing right in front of me. Her big, green eyes lift to mine. I swear I can see her pupils dilate. Her eyes are wide in a way that makes my knees feel unsteady and my brain forgets how to fucking function.
My gaze drops to her lips before I can stop it. They’re lightly parted, pink from laughing, still glossy. And I’ve never wanted to kiss the shit out of someone more in my life.
Neither of us are saying anything. We just stand there, staring at each other, heat burning between us. My eyes drift down again to her mouth. And the longer I look, the stronger the pull becomes. My grip tightens just slightly at her waist—and the smallest sound slips from her throat.
Dear God.
The sound hits me straight in the chest, settling somewhere deep under my ribs.
“Ryan—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish as I crash my lips to hers.
It hits like fucking lightning. Heat and urgency and weeks of pretending collapse into one single moment, and all I can think is holy shit.
She gasps softly, and the sound sends a sharp jolt through every nerve in my body. I deepen the kiss, one hand sliding up her back while the other stays firm at her waist, the only thing keeping me even slightly grounded.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging just enough to pull a low sound from my chest. And the moment her tongue brushes mine, every coherent thought disappears.
The world narrows to her. The way she tastes like cherry. The way she moves closer instead of away.
When her hips press nearer, it messes with all my senses and the last fragile piece of control I had snaps completely.
I move us backward without breaking the kiss, barely aware of anything except needing her closer, until the kitchen island counter meets her lower back.
A soft sound slips from her—breathless, surprised— and the dizziness hits me instantly.
My hands find the warm skin at her waist beneath her hoodie, and I nudge a few things aside on the counter behind her without looking, barely breaking the kiss.
Then I lift her. She feels weightless as I set her on the counter, and I’m kissing her again immediately, her lips soft and sweet as they move with mine.
Both my hands grab her hips, her legs wrap around me on instinct, and the feeling nearly wrecks me.
Electric isn’t even close to enough of a word. I feel like I could drown in this and never come back up. I don’t want to stop. Ever.
Then—a key turns in the lock. The sound cuts through everything like ice water. We both freeze.
She pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes wide. “Fuck,” she whispers.
I’m breathing hard, pulse roaring in my ears, hands still on her.
“Is that—” I start.
“Noah,” she hisses, already pushing at my chest. “That’s Noah.”
Oh, fuck.