21 - Wesley #2
“I’m sorry.” And I am.
“Don’t apologize.” He stands upright, uncrossing his legs. “I just mean, you’re right. I hate this place, and it does make me feel like every day is a day closer to me leaving. No one has ever noticed before, though.”
He finishes, eyes shifting from amused to something more earnest.
It makes my mouth dry.
“Wesley, why are you here?”
I open my mouth, then close it again. “I don’t know.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “Yes, you do.”
The air shifts, the weight of his attention sharpening.
“You were going to kiss me on Wednesday.”
I swallow. I don’t know why I say it. Maybe I just need to hear him confirm it before I make a fool out of myself.
He heads to the kitchen, grabs his drink, and then takes a long pull, never breaking eye contact with me. The pause feels intentional, like he’s choosing his honesty instead of defaulting to charm.
“Yes,” he says simply.
Well, shit. I knew in my gut what he’d been doing, but hearing him say it out loud is different. Heat pools low in my belly because hearing him own it without trying to minimize it is so damn attractive.
“Why?”
“It should be obvious.”
I cross my arms, more to give my hands something to do than out of defensiveness. “Well, it’s not. There are a lot of attractive girls in Boston you could kiss.”
“I know,” he says easily. “That’s not the point.”
He sets the cup down on the counter and leans back, still watching me.
“There aren’t many who insult my apartment,” he continues. “Not many take being an athlete as seriously as I do. Not many remind me what it feels like to love the grind instead of surviving it.”
My heart stumbles for a second as he goes on.
“You remind me not to take this for granted,” he says. “You remind me why I play.” He pauses, then adds, “You said it yourself. We earn every moment we get to do this.”
“That’s the second time you’ve quoted my speech back to me.” My lips curve into a smile before I can stop them. “Do you have it memorized?”
He shrugs. “Most of it.”
I break eye contact first, grabbing a glass from the drying mat by the sink to buy myself time. I fill it with water, hands steady even though my pulse isn’t, and take a small sip as I lean back against the counter, watching him carefully over the rim.
“So, yes, there are many attractive women in Boston that I could kiss, but why would I kiss them when all I want is to be kissing you?”
His eyes dart to my lips as I reflexively curl my bottom lip into my mouth, wetting it. I can’t help but think about how his lips felt on mine at the bar.
The silence between us feels different now.
Heavier. Expectant.
“I don’t date.” I set the glass down a little harder than necessary, the quiet clink cutting through the room.
Nathan doesn’t look surprised. If anything, he looks relieved. “I don’t either.”
“Right.” I know he doesn’t. He’s told me that already. I gesture vaguely between us. “You’ve been a really good fake boyfriend, you know.”
A sharp noise escapes him as if it were dragged out of his chest against his will. “Yeah. Thrilled to hear it.”
I wince despite myself and take a step toward him. “I mean that in a good way. I really am grateful. You stepped in when you didn’t need to. You saved my ass.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I’m just saying,” I continue, softer now, “you didn’t have to do any of that.”
“I wanted to,” he says immediately. “Let’s not pretend my intentions aren't selfish.” He stays where he is, hands loose at his sides, deliberately not closing the distance between us. He’s giving me space even though everything in the room feels like it’s pulling us together.
The restraint does something to me.
“I don’t date,” I say again.
Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “I get it.”
“I don’t go out.”
“I know.” He’s no longer looking at me.
“Nathan.”
His eyes shift back to me, so much frustration they’re burning like a wildfire.
“I don’t drink beer. I don’t kiss boys on the dance floor. I don’t do any of this.”
At least I never have. I’ve never wanted to. The click happens so suddenly it’s almost physical.
I step forward, closing this distance between us.
His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but enough.
I reach him before my nerves can talk me out of it, before logic can remind me of consequences. My hand curls into the fabric of his shirt, and I rise up to bridge the last inch between us.
I kiss him.
It’s not tentative. It’s decisive, like I’ve made up my mind and my body knows it before the rest of me does. He freezes for half a heartbeat, and then he’s kissing me back, slow and devastatingly careful.
The world narrows to heat and the quiet sound he makes when I pull away to breathe.
“I’ve been thinking about doing that,” I murmur, my mouth still close to his, “since Wednesday.”
His eyes are dark, focused entirely on me. “Yeah?”
“I figured,” I say softly, “I’m already breaking all my rules, I might as well go all in.”
Then I kiss him again.
Harder this time. Hungrier. His hands finally come up, settling at my waist like he’s been fighting the instinct, and the way he exhales against my mouth feels like relief.