Chapter 3
the fallout
Three days before New Year's, Ben and I walked our usual path along the Marina.
The water had that silver winter sheen and we hid inside our hoodies, strings pulled tight.
It was our place, where we used to go running, or sit cross-legged and sketch our ten-year plans, thinking the universe had already stamped them with approval.
We'd been best friends for a little over a year by then—a fact sealed with a pinky swear we still laughed about—but we did most of the things couples do.
Spent our free days together, booked last-minute trips whenever we needed an escape, spilled our friends' secrets even though we swore we wouldn't, and knew each other in ways no one else was allowed to. And that's where it ended.
Until that day.
We stopped and sank into the grass, side to side.
Ben leaned closer, his gaze delving deep into mine to the point I felt tunneled and said, "You've got dangerous eyes, you know that? I love how your iris shifts. And your stroma—how the yellow fades into mossy green."
Iris. Stroma. Moss. It was so technical and poetic at the same time that I snorted, unsure whether he was flirting or not.
I opened my mouth to maybe tell him his eyes were dark galaxies compared to mine, if I finally got the courage, but he startled me when his finger grazed above my lip—just a second, but enough to make my breath hitch.
"And your lips," he said, licking his own like he'd been imagining something he shouldn't, "they're cute as hell. That philtrum."
My laugh came out nervous, too high. "Philtrum? What is that? You making up words now?"
"That little dip," he explained, all casual, eyes lingering there. "It's the cutest thing I've seen."
What? Not my beautiful wavy hair. Not my legs I worked hard for. Not my smile that people said was contagious. This?
I gave him a stunned face. "Wow. Thank you. Never thought the moneymaker would be my philtrum, doc."
He smiled before his expression went somewhat serious and he said, "No. Your moneymaker is your butt. Should come with a warning label for distracting my sanity."
I blinked and shoved his shoulder. "Stop that. Right now."
"What?" He scowled, but I could tell he was having a great time. "You wanted me impotent. Now also blind?"
It wasn't the first time he made a comment like that.
There were moments when the tension swelled, when he'd say something flirty, or comment on what I wore, but it was so casual and offhand that I never thought there was any weight behind it.
I rolled my eyes, and then dragged them over him, hungry for somewhere else to put the heat. "You know, you kind of remind me of the David statue."
His grimace was instant, amused and insulted. "Absolutely not. I can guarantee you Michelangelo couldn't have dreamed up what I'm packing."
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth like he scandalized me.
A lie.
I'd thought about Ben naked more times than I'd ever admit. Even sketched him nude, once or twice.
Boys could glance at a girl and know the general idea. Ben had me pretty figured out from the clothes I wore—decent bust, tiny waist, hips made for grabbing, but girls? What did we get? Shadow and denim.
Unless I wanted to be the first girl in history to beg for a dick pi. Which—ehm, no. Absolutely no.
"That's not what I meant, you idiot," I said, trying to regain composure. "And I said stop it."
"You started it," he shot back, his grin lazy.
"No, you started it. You're saying words like philtrum and making them sound dirty."
He went all faux-innocent. "It's a medical term. Not my fault you're a pervert."
I rolled my eyes. "Anyway—"
"What anyway? I am nothing like David anyway," he cut in, and pulled an affronted face. "I think you're blind."
He wasn't wrong. His jaw could cut glass and he was way hotter than David, but the sweetest part was how wounded he got because I didn't compliment him.
"Okay, okay, relax. I'm sorry." I tapped his nose. "But your nose is similar, and you have that elegant and menacing combo."
"Menacing?" He sniffed a laugh, tone giving away he liked that one. "I didn't know you were afraid of me."
"Me? Afraid of you?" I pulled a face. "Please. I saw how you look when you wake up. Too cute."
I don't think he heard a word I said. His hand closed over mine and he lifted it, and tilted it like he was inspecting the fit. Or maybe feeling the pulse that was already thumping too fast.
Then, slowly, he threaded his fingers through mine—and god, we fit. Perfectly.
For a while, we sat there in silence with hands entwined, me keeping my eyes on the little boats rocking on the water, but really just feeling him.
The heat of his palm, the strength of his grip, and how it made me feel absurdly safe, just by existing inside him like that.
The whole time I waited for him to say something. Anything. Like, Do you feel me? How the world bends a little when we touch like this?
But no. Instead, he checked his watch, muttered about prepping for work, and slipped his fingers out of mine before I could trap him there.
The hug he gave after was short, back to that best-friend rhythm, and leaving, he didn't even turn back.
Still, I half-floated home, replaying every second.
It was the first time he'd touched me this way, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why he didn't tilt toward a kiss. Maybe in his world, friends held hands?
I started feeling like a hopeful loser, but then, just as I unlocked the door, my phone buzzed.
Ben: What should we name our kids? I want Gia. After my Nonna
I jumped—actually jumped. No chance of playing it cool, I was already typing back.
Me: :) I love that. Always wanted a Theo
Ben: Theo with your freckles? Yeah, that works. He'd be perfect
Ben: We'll need a third one. Someone to referee those two
Me: Three kids? Someone's confident
Ben: I'd want ten, but three seems reasonable
Me: Three kids and you haven't even kissed me yet
Ben: Yet
Me: Yet?
No reply.
The rest of the day I did domestic chores, and folded laundry with manic focus—shirts into perfect squares. Anything to not think, to not keep flipping my phone that sat face-down, as if I didn't put the sounds on full blast so I could run to it the second he texted back.
Hours passed. I changed into my pajamas, yawned and got ready for bed.
Then, two minutes past midnight, his reply finally came.
Ben: Open your door
Staring at the message, I quickly grabbed that red sundress he loved on me, my fingers fumbling with the zipper, too impatient to do it properly as I walked to the corridor, every step a countdown.
And there he was.
Door barely cracked and he surged in, pressing me back until my spine kissed the wall.
His hand cupped my chin, making sure I don't slip away. "Should've done this a long time ago."
My breath stuttered. "What happened to friends?"
"Emma." He tipped his head toward mine, eyeing me like I was the only one not getting it. "I've never been your friend."
That made me blink, thrown off. "What do you mean?"
"Friends don't spend years trying not to think about bending you over mid-sentence." He said it, sounding almost pained, like it was the unfortunate truth but my jaw slipped open.
We'd had several sleepovers during which I waited for his move in the dark, and it never came, so it made no sense.
His hand slid onto my thigh and my whole body went electric.
"Our stupid deal is over," he said, dragging my skirt higher until his fingers grabbed my hip. "Even though you'll probably ruin me."
I searched his eyes, wondering if he was serious. "You think I'll ruin you? You'll ruin me." He already had.
"Then maybe we'll ruin each other," he said like that was our inevitable fate, and his hand cinched closer between my thighs.
I let it happen for one delicious second before catching his wrist, scraping for sanity.
"Ben," I breathed. "I hate to say this, but I'm on my period."
There. Honesty grenade.
For a second, he recoiled, as I expected any guy would, and it made me feel pathetic and angry with the timing.
But then, his expression softened, even melted as he leaned in closer, voice dropping into something worshipful: "So?
You think I mind when it's you? You're more tender now.
That makes it better. More intimate. I'd love to take you slow like that. "
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Even I squirmed over my period sometimes, especially the first few days, and here he said it like it was holy.
It made me like him more. So much more.
I bit back my smile and shook my head. "No. Our first time isn't happening like that."
He frowned, but his hand dropped. Then he nodded and his mouth hovered over mine, close enough to taste his breath, but just holding me there.
"Alright. Then show me what you can do with your mouth."
I gave him a confident smirk. I wasn't good at many things, but this I could use to ruin him, make him regret every second he hadn't kissed me sooner.
"Careful," I whispered. "You'll never want anyone else."
"Same to you," he said, eyes flicking to my lips. "But fair warning—I'll hold back. Or you'll beg me to take you all the way."
Except he didn't hold back, not even close.
Our mouths crashed hungry and we banged the door to my room, rattling it shut behind us.
We didn't stop when we stumbled on the bed, when he pulled me on top of him, his hand fisting my hair, tilting my head how he wanted me—making me almost go against my words and beg him to take me, just like he said he would.
No one had ever kissed me like that. Our rhythm was just there. You either have it with someone or you don't, and with us, it was seismic.
The morning after, my lips were sore and my tongue tasted like his mints. Too much kissing and biting.
He laughed about blue balls, brushed it off with the kind of grin that made it sound like a compliment, and told me he was drowning in work until New Year's.
Which was fine because it was just three days. I could survive three days.