Page 16

Cade's body stiffens in horror. The lamp on my nightstand casts his face in soft shadows, highlighting the confusion that sweeps across his features.

He looks down at the ground, brow furrowed.

"This was a mistake." I sway against my dresser. Fuck, I really am drunk. "Again. We shouldn't have done this."

Something flickers in his eyes — hurt, maybe, but clearly frustration. He sits up fully, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. The gesture seems to emphasize his growing agitation, fingers raking through the dark strands as if he might find answers there.

"I don't understand why I need to leave," he says, voice low to avoid carrying through the thin walls of my apartment. "Everything was fine five minutes ago. Better than fine."

That's the problem. It was better than fine. It was perfect — his touch, his words, the way he looked at me.

"If you are so worried about Byron…" I sigh, holding in my burp. "It's just…this isn't going to work."

He watches me for a long moment, his hand making another journey through his hair. The muscles in his jaw tighten, a telltale sign of controlled emotion.

"What can I do?" he asks finally, the question unexpected enough to make me pause. "To prove myself to you?"

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I asked him to leave, pushed him away with deliberate cruelty, and his response is to ask how he can stay? The vulnerability in his expression makes something twist painfully in my chest.

A dozen responses rise to my lips, but what emerges surprises even me. "I don't want to be second best."

The admission hangs between us, trembling with implications I hadn't meant to reveal. But now that the words are free, they bring clarity with them — a tide of realizations I've been holding at bay.

"Byron always put me last," I continue, the words spilling out before I can stop them. I hadn't even realized I was thinking it until I hear myself saying it aloud. "Last after his video games, after you, his friends, his degree, his hobbies. Everything came before me, and it sucked. It sucked to always be an afterthought in my own relationship. I do not want to be treated like that again, Cade."

Cade watches me, something shifting in his expression. "I'm dedicated to school," he says carefully. "And hockey takes up a lot of my time now. I have a pretty tight schedule." He pauses, eyes never leaving mine. "But if you want to see where this goes, I'm down. We could make it work, figure it out."

His sincerity takes me aback. This isn't the arrogant Cade I thought I knew, the one who takes what he wants without consideration for others. This is someone new — or perhaps someone who was always there, hidden beneath layers of defense and competition.

"Hannah and I barely saw each other," he continues when I don't respond. "But we had date nights. Regular ones. If that's what you want—"

"It's not," I interrupt, the realization crystallizing as I speak. One night a week where I'm the priority isn't enough. What I want is so much more — so much more than I've ever admitted to wanting before.

I want to be consumed by someone. I want to be pursued, to be the center of someone's world rather than an orbiting satellite. I want the kind of passion that doesn't fit neatly into scheduled slots between other obligations. I want to be wanted.

But Cade doesn't come on that strong — I've seen how measured, how controlled he can be. He's not the type to obsess, to chase, to overwhelm with attention. And admitting what I really want feels too vulnerable, too needy.

"Date night every week isn't going to cut it," I say instead, the words sounding harsher than intended.

Frustration flashes across his face. "Then what do you want, Saylor? Tell me, because I'm trying here, and you're not giving me much to work with."

Why are men like this?

I inhale, his irritation pushes through my defenses, cutting closer to the truth. "I want someone who's obsessed enough with me to always want to be around," I admit, my voice dropping to just above a whisper. "I'm tired of being the one who chases. Being chased, for once… that's what I want. That would be nice."

I expect mockery, or at least a sigh about how insane I sound. Instead, Cade's expression softens, his hand stilling in his hair.

"Okay," he says simply, clapping his hands together.

I blink at him. "Okay?"

"If that's what you need, I get it. I'll give it you." His voice carries no hesitation, no judgment — just calm acceptance. "I don't want to lose this — lose you — before we even figure out what it is."

The sincerity in his eyes makes my breath catch. This is Cade Connolly, the smarty pants guy who could have a girl that's way better than me. Have you seen Hannah? The girl's a fucking saint, and I'm far from that. And he's telling me he doesn't want to lose me ? It doesn't compute with the image I've constructed of him since I've known him.

Is my pussy that good?

I find myself laughing, quickly covering my mouth at that thought.

Am I giggly over the idea that Cade's giving me what I want? Shit, I am giddy on the inside. My terrible mood is disappearing like clouds blowing away. I search my mind for what this means, but I'm also too drunk to comprehend it.

"I have terms too," he adds, a familiar spark of challenge returning to his gaze.

"Terms?" I echo, wariness mingling with curiosity.

"I'm going to take you on dates, whether you like it or not. And I want you to stay over at my place once or twice a week."

Each word sends a different kind of warmth through me — not the sharp heat of desire, but something softer, more dangerous. The prospect of regular dates, of nights spent in his bed, of building something beyond these feverish encounters, makes my pulse race in a way that has nothing to do with physical attraction.

"If I'd known all you needed was a little commitment," he says, leaning closer until his breath warms my lips, "I would have given it to you a week ago."

The space between us crackles with possibility — not just for another night of amazing sex, but for something more substantial. Something I never expected to find with him of all people.

"So?" he prompts when I remain silent. "Do we have a deal?"

The question is in the air as my mind still searches for how to comprehend this. This isn't just about tonight or last week or about sex. It's about admitting that whatever is happening between us matters enough to define, to protect, to nurture, to grow.

"What about Byron?" I ask, the question that's been hovering at the edges of my consciousness finally finding voice.

"You'll be my secret," he says softly.

The words shouldn't affect me the way they do — shouldn't send warmth cascading through me, shouldn't make my heart flutter like a caged bird. There's something undeniably thrilling about the idea of being Cade's secret, something both forbidden and precious wrapped into one.

A blush crawls up my neck as I try and fail to contain the smile spreading across my face. The emotion bubbling up inside me is so foreign, so unexpected, that I hardly recognize it. Happiness? Relief? Whatever it is, it fills my chest until I feel I might float away with the lightness of it.

"Come here," Cade murmurs. I walk to my bed and let him arrange us so that I'm cradled against his chest, his arm a reassuring weight around my waist. My head fits perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, as if I am right where I need to be.

We lie like this, heartbeats gradually synchronizing, breath slowing to match. The entire world has narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment. All the complications — Byron, our history, the uncertain future — seem distant and manageable from within this cocoon we've created.

My mind races with possibilities, with anticipation. Getting to know Cade — the real Cade, learning his habits, his preferences, his history. The thought sends a pleasant shiver through me.

"Cold?" he asks, mistaking my reaction.

"No," I whisper. "Just happy."

His arm tightens around me, lips pressing a gentle kiss to my temple. "Me too."

As sleep claims me, nested in his warmth, my last conscious thought is that I never expected this night to end like this, to have a common ground with him.

Something soft and warm traces a path along my neck, drawing me gradually from the depths of sleep. I arch instinctively toward the source, my body responding before my mind fully awakens. The solid heat pressing against my lower back makes itself known. Cade's boner pressing against me.

"Morning," he murmurs against my skin, his voice rough with sleep and want.

I turn in his arms, wincing slightly as daylight assaults my eyes. The movement sends a wave of nausea rolling through me, a sharp reminder of last night's drinking. But even hungover, the sight of Cade in morning light — hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded with remaining sleep, stubble darkening his jaw — sets off butterflies in my stomach that have nothing to do with alcohol.

"I have homework to tackle today," he says, fingers tracing the line of my collarbone. "Would love it if you joined me."

The words are casual, but the implication isn't. This isn't just about sex anymore. This is about spending a normal day together, sharing space, existing in each other's orbits without the sex or the excuse of alcohol.

Before I can answer, another wave of nausea hits, stronger than before. I scramble out of bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I throw everything up. The cool porcelain of the toilet is a small mercy against my heated skin as I heave.

Moments later, I feel gentle hands gathering my hair back from my face. Cade kneels beside me, concern etched across his features as he holds my hair with one hand, the other rubbing soothing circles on my back.

"I'm never drinking again," I groan when the worst has passed.

A small smile touches his lips. "Sounds like a deal to me."

There's something really sweet about this moment — more intimate, in some ways, than our night together. Letting someone see you at your worst, vulnerable and decidedly unglamorous, requires a different kind of trust than sharing your body.

After brushing my teeth with a spare toothbrush Cade finds in the cabinet (clearly belonging to Chloe, given the pink color), I splash water on my face and try to tame my wild hair into something presentable. The girl in the mirror looks different. My eyes are brighter despite the hangover, a softness to my face that I don't recognize. I wasn't this happy with Byron.

Cade waits patiently while I get dressed, then he guides me out with a hand at the small of my back. The simple contact anchors me, grounds me in this new reality of him and I together.

His apartment is exactly what I'd expect — modern furniture, minimalist decor, everything in its place. It's the home of someone who values order and functionality, who doesn't waste time on unnecessary frills.

"Trevor's visiting his parents for the weekend," Cade explains as he gives me the tour. "Kitchen's through there, but fair warning though, we mostly eat takeout."

I follow him through the living room, taking in details that reveal glimpses of who he is beyond the image he projects. Textbooks neatly stacked on a shelf. A framed photo of him with Sandy from what must be high school, hockey sticks in hand. A small collection of vinyl records beside a turntable.

When we reach his bedroom, I pause in the doorway, taking in the space where he spends his private hours. The large desk covered in organized stacks of papers. The queen-sized bed with navy blue sheets pulled taut at the corners. The absence of personal items, save for a single photo of what appears to be his family on the nightstand.

"That's the same bed," he says suddenly, following my gaze to the neatly made mattress. "The one where Hannah and Sandy fucked for the first time." A grimace twisting his features as he stares at the bed like it's a nightmare. "I just think it every time I walk in here."

The comment should bother me more than it does. Instead, I find myself moving toward him, a newfound boldness guiding my steps. "Well," I say, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt, "looks like I'll have to bang that memory right out of your head. Supply you with some new ones."

His eyes darken at my words, but a small smile plays at his lips. "Oh, yeah?" He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. "Tempting but let me get you something for that hangover."

He disappears into the bathroom, returning with two pills and a glass of water. "Take these. Trust me, they work wonders."

The care in this simple gesture touches something inside me. How long has it been since someone looked after me this way? Since someone anticipated my needs before I voiced them?

"I'm going to grab a quick shower," he says, gathering fresh clothes from a drawer. "Make yourself comfortable. There's a charger on the desk if your laptop needs it."

I nod, already moving to set up my computer. The medicine begins to work as I power up my laptop, the pounding in my temples subsiding to a manageable throb. I'm scrolling through email when Cade emerges from the bathroom, and the sight nearly short-circuits my brain.

He stands in the doorway, a towel slung low on his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest and shoulders. His hair is darker when wet, slicked back from his forehead. The defined muscles of his torso glisten in the morning light, drawing my eye downward to the trail of hair that disappears beneath the towel.

My mouth hangs open, all thoughts of homework temporarily forgotten. The memory of those muscles moving beneath my hands, of that skin pressed against mine, sends heat pooling low in my belly.

"Ordered breakfast," he says, apparently oblivious to my reaction. "Delivery should be here in about twenty minutes." He grabs clothes from his dresser, disappearing back into the bathroom to change.

By the time he returns, fully dressed to my slight disappointment, I've managed to compose myself enough to focus on the screen before me. He settles beside me on the bed, his own laptop balanced on his thighs, our shoulders touching casually.

The food arrives as promised — bagels, coffee, and fruit cups from the café near campus. We sit cross-legged on his bed, laptops pushed aside, eating in companionable silence broken only by occasional comments about the food or questions about each other's assignments.

It's easy. Natural. As if we've been doing this for years instead of hours. I steal glances at his profile as he eats, studying the lines of his face, the way his lips curl when he finds something amusing, the furrow that appears between his brows when he's thinking. It's strange how quickly my anger can transform into something else entirely — how the very presence that once irritated me now brings a sense of peace.

"What?" he asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I reply, a smile tugging at my lips. "I just…can't believe this." I gesture between the both of us.

The answering smile he gives me is worth every moment of confusion, every awkward conversation, every painful truth we've navigated to reach this point. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm not angry. Not hating. Not hiding. Not pretending.

Just happy. Simply, completely happy.