Page 18

The scent of garlic and basil fills Cade's kitchen, mingling with the warm glow of wine and easy laughter. He moves around the space with unexpected grace, chopping vegetables while I sit on the counter, swinging my legs and sipping from my glass.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one cooking," I observe, watching him add perfectly diced onions to the sizzling pan.

He glances over, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You are. I'm just helping."

"This doesn't look like helping. This looks like taking over. You're crowding me."

"Fine. You handle the sauce." He nudges the wooden spoon toward me, stepping aside just enough to let me slide into place before him.

I take the spoon, but before I can stir, his arms encircle my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder to survey my technique. The solid warmth of him against my back sends tingles down my spine.

"Am I doing it wrong already?" I ask, aware of how my voice has softened.

"Just supervising." His lips brush below my ear, making it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand. "Making sure you don't ruin my dinner."

"Your dinner? I thought this was our dinner."

"I can share," he murmurs, hands sliding to my hips.

This moment feels too good, too perfect, and a familiar doubt creeps in. Is this just a performance? Another facet of Cade's charm, carefully cultivated to get what he wants?

I push the thought away, determined to enjoy this moment for what it is without analyzing it to death. His lips find my neck again, and I tilt my head to give him better access, the sauce momentarily forgotten.

"It's going to burn," I manage to say, though making no move to stop him.

"Can't have that." His voice rumbles against my skin, sending shivers down my spine as he reaches around me to adjust the heat. "Better?"

"Not if you want to actually eat dinner tonight."

His laugh vibrates through me, warm and genuine. "Fair point."

Somehow, despite the distractions, we manage to complete the meal — pasta with a tomato cream sauce, garlic bread, and a simple salad. Cade sets the small dining table while I plate the food.

As we settle across from each other, wine glasses refilled, the question that's been burning inside me all evening finally escapes. "Do you always do this? With dates, I mean."

Cade raises an eyebrow. "Do what?"

He gives me a look like am I really bringing up other girls right now, but I have to. I have to know if this is normal Cade behavior.

"This." I gesture vaguely around us. "The cooking, the hovering, the…" I trail off, suddenly feeling stupid for asking.

"The what?" he asks, his direct gaze making it impossible to look away. "No. I don't."

"Your turn," he says, taking a bite of pasta. "Were you like this with Byron?"

I consider the question, comparing the nervous excitement I feel around Cade to the comfortable routine Byron and I had settled into. "No," I admit. "I wasn't."

I hide the smirk growing on my lips and blush. Byron didn't make me feel like high school all over again.

He takes a sip of his wine. "Good."

I twirl pasta around my fork, watching Cade over the rim of his wine glass.

"This is actually really good," I admit, gesturing at my plate, ignoring whatever tension was building there. "Who taught you to cook?"

Cade takes a sip of his wine before answering. "My mom, mostly. After my parents split, she worked a lot, so it was either learn to cook or live on frozen pizza. And I couldn't have that."

"And Sandy? I mean Sanderson," I ask, correcting myself because I don't know him as Sandy. I just know that's what Cade calls him.

"Sandy can barely make toast without setting off the smoke alarm." He grins, a genuine fondness softening his expression. "One time he tried to surprise Mom with breakfast on her birthday. I woke up to him panicking with a flaming pan of bacon and eggs cemented to the bottom."

The image makes me laugh. "What did you do?"

"Helped him clean up and cooked them correctly for her. He still owes me for that one." He takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully.

I chuckle at the thought. "So, what's your specialty? Besides pasta that's actually edible."

"Well, for one, I make a mean breakfast. Pancakes, eggs, the works." He leans forward slightly. "Maybe you'll find out someday."

The idea of staying the night and waking up to him cooking me breakfast sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. "Is that an invitation, Connolly?"

"More like a preview of coming attractions." His smile is both mischievous and genuine. "What about you? What's your specialty?"

"Thai curry," I say without hesitation. "Not the watered-down American version. The real deal that makes your eyes water and your soul leave your body." I squint my eyes at him, taking a sip of my wine.

He laughs. "Sounds terrifying. I'm in."

"Careful what you wish for. I've made grown men cry."

His smile widens. God, he's handsome. "I like a challenge." He holds my gaze a beat longer than necessary, the double meaning hanging between us.

I take another bite to break the intensity, but the connection remains, an invisible thread pulling us toward each other across the small table.

"Okay, serious question," he says, refilling our wine glasses. "Is cereal soup?"

I nearly choke on my pasta. "What? No. Absolutely not."

"Think about it," he insists, eyes lighting up with the absurdity of the debate. "Cold liquid with solid pieces floating in it. That's soup."

"That's… No, Cade," I shake my head emphatically. "Soup is cooked. Cereal is…cereal."

"Gazpacho is cold. Still soup." He's grinning now, clearly enjoying my outrage. "And what about cereal with warm milk?"

"That's disgusting, first of all. And still not soup."

"What's your definition of soup then, smarty pants?" He leans back in his chair, arms crossed.

I consider this for a moment. "Soup needs to have a broth or base that's more complex than milk. Flavored with herbs or spices or vegetables."

"So, if I add cinnamon to my milk…"

"Still not soup!" I throw my head back and laugh. "This is the hill you want to die on? I will fight you all day."

"I'm just saying, if we're going by culinary taxonomy—"

"Oh my god, culinary taxonomy?" I dissolve into laughter. "Who even are you?"

"Cade Connolly." He winks, taking another sip of wine. "Someone who appreciates proper soup categorization."

There's that cocky arrogant prick I used to hate. He's right here, but it's odd how time changes everything. I understand him now, and I definitely don't hate what I see.

"You're very annoying," I laugh.

"Yet here you are, having dinner with me anyway." His expression softens. "Lucky me."

The simple sincerity in his voice catches me off guard, silencing my retort. For a moment, we just look at each other, the playful argument fading into something deeper.

"What do you want to do?" he asks suddenly. And I can think of a dozen things I want to do to him. First, I would take his shirt off and then I would… "After college, I mean."

Suddenly, I have to remember what I'm doing after college. I take a sip to waste some time, trying to gather my thoughts away from slipping off my shirt to show him what I really want to do.

The shift in topic is jarring but welcome. "Marketing for a non-profit, ideally. Something where I feel like I'm contributing more than just making some corporation richer." I hesitate, not used to sharing these aspirations. "Sounds cheesy, I know."

"Not at all." He looks genuinely interested. "Which kind of non-profit?"

"Environmental, maybe? Or education?" I shrug. "Still figuring that part out. What about you? Let me guess — Fortune 500 company, corner office, using your good looks and arrogant attitude to ruthlessly climb the corporate ladder?"

He winces slightly, his eyes narrow slightly. "Is that what you think of me?"

"Kind of your whole vibe," I tease. "The ambitious business major who's going to take over the world."

"Not totally wrong," he admits. "But I've been thinking lately about starting something of my own. A company with different values."

That surprises me. An entrepreneurial endeavor. "Like what?"

"One that treats people well. Sustainable practices. Giving back to communities." He looks almost embarrassed by the admission. "Sandy's always been the family humanitarian. I was the capitalist robot."

"Was?" I prompt.

"Am evolving," he corrects with a small smile. "Let's just say recent experiences have made me reconsider some priorities."

The statement hangs between us, but I won't acknowledge it directly. Instead, I ask, "What kind of business?"

For the next twenty minutes, he outlines his ideas — a tech company focused on environmental applications, ways to make sustainability profitable, visions that reveal a depth of thought I never associated with the Cade I thought I knew.

As our plates empty and conversation flows, I realize how rarely Byron and I had talks like this — about dreams, aspirations, the future as something to build rather than just arrive at. The comparison makes me uncomfortable, so I push it away, focusing instead on the man across from me.

"Dessert?" Cade asks as we reach a natural pause.

"I couldn't eat another bite," I admit. "But I make an excellent dishwasher assistant."

"Okay." He stands, gathering our plates. "I wash, you dry?"

In the small kitchen, we establish a rhythm — Cade rinsing dishes before placing them in the soapy water, me drying each one and finding its proper place. The domestic simplicity of the task feels unexpectedly intimate.

"You missed a spot," I point out, bumping his hip with mine to move him aside.

"Did not," he protests, flicking soap bubbles in my direction.

"Very mature." I reach around him for the next plate, our bodies brushing against each other in the confined space.

He catches my hand, turning me to face him. Water drips from his fingers onto my wrist as he pulls me closer. "Have I told you how incredible you look tonight?"

"Only twice," I murmur, heat rising to my cheeks despite myself. "Going for a third, Connolly?"

Instead of answering, he leans down, lips meeting mine in a kiss that tastes of wine. My hands find his shoulders, dish towel still clutched in one fist as I press against him.

"We're never going to finish these dishes, are we?" he asks against my mouth.

"Probably not," I agree, stealing another kiss before reluctantly pulling away. "But we should try."

We return to our tasks, though now every movement feels charged with anticipation. He passes me a glass, our fingers lingering as they touch. I reach past him for the dish soap, deliberately letting my body brush against his. The simple chore becomes a dance of near-touches and knowing glances.

"Last one," he announces finally, handing me a serving spoon.

"Congratulations on owning exactly four plates, six glasses, and random assortment of silverware," I tease, putting the final dish away.

"The glamorous bachelor life." He dries his hands on the towel I offer. "Though it's never felt quite this appealing before."

His eyes hold mine, and in that moment, I understand what he's really saying — that this ordinary evening, this simple night, means something to him too.

He leads me to his bedroom, and the playfulness transforms into something deeper. Cade lays me gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Undress for me," he says softly.

I smile, knowing that there's nothing I want more. I sit up and take my shirt off first. I watch as his eyes flicker with need as they trail down my body. I let my bra strap slip off my shoulders as I inhale.

He stands in front of me and pulls off his shirt, displaying a nice set of abs and muscular arms.

"Unclip this for me," I ask, standing up and turning my back to him. I make sure to rub my ass on his cock as I pull my hair to the side.

He kisses my neck, so I lean into him. His fingers glide down my arm until he reaches the back of my bra. He unclips it and rests his head on my shoulder, slowly guiding the bra off my chest.

When my boobs fall out, I feel his hard dick press against my ass. I lean into him as he cups my breasts. We stay like this for a moment as I revel under his stare. Then I turn and place my hand on his chest, pushing him away from me.

I unbutton my jeans, kicking them off. He stares into my eyes with that look. You know that look when someone can't get enough of you. I raise an eyebrow at him as if it's his turn to take off his pants now.

He laughs, shying away. But he takes the hint, unbuttoning his pants and pulls them down.

We stand across from each other in only our underwear, completely unashamed. This is the most confident and beautiful I have ever felt in front of anyone.

My eyes sweep down his body, flicking back to meet his stare.

The boy I hated.

A smile plays on his lips like he knows what I'm thinking.

I can't help the smile on my face, staring back.

"Cade," I mutter.

"Saylor."

He takes a step forward, reaching for my waist. "I can't wait to be inside of you."

"My favorite way to have you," I joke.

He leans down and kisses me.

The next morning, I can sleep in a little because I don't have any morning classes. The deep pelvic ache is no longer there, completely satisfied by Cade last night. I came home at around midnight, so I'm glad I got to sleep in.

A notification from my phone vibrates while I'm still half-asleep. I peek one eye to read the message, not bothering to look at who it's from.

My stomach drops as I read the text.

Can we talk?

I glance at Byron's name, heart pounding as if I've been caught doing something wrong. Which, technically, I have been. I've been doing a lot wrong. I mean, the guy I'm fucking is Byron's best friend. The guilt I've managed to suppress during my time with Cade surges back with a vengeance.

I find Mina in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee while scrolling through her phone. Chloe's bedroom door is open, her bed neatly made and empty — probably at her early anatomy lab.

"Byron texted me," I blurt out, holding up my phone like it's contaminated. "He wants to talk."

Mina sets her mug down, suddenly alert. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know." I drop into the chair across from her, pushing the phone away as if distance might make the problem disappear. "What should I do?"

"Ignore him," she says immediately. "You've moved on. You're with Cade now."

"Secretly," I remind her. "And not like official or anything. We're just like… I don't know… banging our brains out! But what about closure with Byron? I still feel awful about how everything went down."

"You think you should meet up with him to talk? About what? Closure?" Mina raises a skeptical eyebrow. "It sounds like your ex, whom you broke up with is fishing for a second chance. What else does he mean by talk ?"

"Maybe," I concede. "But I owe him an apology, don't I? For sleeping with his best friend? I mean he lost me and then Cade. I feel fucking horrible."

Mina sighs, reaching across the table to grab my hand. "Look, you are clearly going to do whatever you want to do… just be careful. I don't know how serious you are about Cade, but you did breakup with Byron, so maybe just leave it as it is. Let me just say this. If Cade wasn't in the picture, I would still tell you not to talk to him, okay? He's your ex."

"I know." I squeeze her hand, grateful for her steady presence. "Okay. I think that's what I needed to hear. Thank you."

But throughout the morning, as I attempt to focus on homework, the text message haunts me. I contemplate it. Byron has ignored me this whole time, so maybe it's my chance to tie up any loose ends. We could get real closure. I could actually apologize, and it would help my moral being. The more I sit on it, the more I think it's what I need.

By late afternoon, acting on impulse more than reason, I text Byron back.

Okay. We can talk.

Almost immediately, three dots appear, indicating Byron is typing. My heart races as I wait for his reply.

Byron's response finally arrives: Tonight? I can order from that Thai place you like. My place, 7?

The suggestion is so familiar, so reminiscent of countless evenings during our relationship, that a wave of nostalgia hits me unexpectedly. Before I can overthink it, I agree.

Which means I need to cancel with Cade. We had loose plans to study together, nothing formal, but the guilt of lying to him sits heavy in my chest. Still, I find myself typing…

Something came up with the girls tonight. Rain check on studying?

His reply is immediate and understanding: No problem. Have fun. Text me later?

The ease with which he accepts my excuse only makes me feel worse. I'm such a fucking liar.

Byron's apartment is exactly as I remember it — dark furniture, gaming setup dominating the living room, minimal decoration save for a few framed photos. What's different is the layer of neglect that seems to have settled over everything — dishes in the sink, clothes draped over furniture, an emptiness that suggests he's been going through the motions rather than truly living here.

Seeing him makes the guilt claw at my chest. I don't know how I will get through this night.

"I ordered already," he says as I settle awkwardly on the familiar couch. "Should be here in five."

"Thanks." I perch on the edge of the cushion, unsure how to occupy this space that was once so comfortable for me.

A heavy silence falls, broken only by the faint sounds of traffic outside. Byron sits beside me, close but not touching, his body angled toward mine in a way that feels both familiar and strange.

"I've missed you," he says suddenly, the words hanging in the air between us.

I did not expect him to be so upfront right away. I thought we would warm up with… I don't fucking know but now I'm panicking. Mina was right. She was so right.

I inhale sharply, but before I can respond, he holds up a hand.

"Let me explain," he says, eyes pleading. "Just hear me out. I've been doing a lot of thinking since we broke up," he says, voice quiet. "About us. About what went wrong."

I shift on the couch, unsure how to respond. "Byron—"

"No, please. Let me get this out." He takes a deep breath. "I was a shitty boyfriend, Saylor."

The bluntness of his statement catches me off guard.

"Remember that night you came over in that red lingerie set?" he continues, and I wince because I just wore that set for Cade last night. "And I didn't even look up from my game?"

My cheeks warm at the memory –– the humiliation, the rejection. "Yeah."

"I've replayed that moment about a thousand times. That was the night you decided to be done, wasn't it?"

I nod, unable to deny it.

"I can't believe I chose some stupid game over you." He rubs his face. "Do you know how many times I've loaded up that game since we broke up? Zero. Doesn't even seem important anymore."

I exhale, wondering if he wants a gold medal for admitting this to me. "It's not just about the video games, Byron."

"I know." He looks at me directly now. "It was everything. I never made time for you. Always put my friends first. Made you schedule your life around mine."

Each point lands with uncomfortable accuracy.

"Remember your photography exhibit? The one you worked on all semester?"

My stomach tightens. "You said you had a study group."

"I was playing Call of Duty with the guys." His voice is hollow with shame. "I missed one of the most important nights of your college career because I couldn't be bothered to show up for you."

The admission stings more than I expected, reopening a wound I thought had healed.

"And your birthday last year? I got you those generic earrings from the mall."

"They were nice," I say automatically.

"They were last-minute. I saw them walking past that kiosk." He shakes his head. "Meanwhile, you spent months planning that surprise party for mine. Made that scrapbook with all our photos."

I don't know what to say. This brutal honesty, this clear-eyed assessment of his failings, is nothing like the Byron I knew. The guy I know would continue to pretend none of it happened.

"When I found out about you and Cade…" His voice catches. "It was like being hit by a truck. But after the shock wore off, I realized something. You didn't just randomly hook up with him to hurt me. You did it because I pushed you away. Because I'd been taking you for granted for so long that you stopped caring what I thought."

"Byron—"

"You know what's really messed up?" He gives a humorless laugh. "It took losing you for me to see how lucky I was. How I had this amazing, beautiful, smart woman who wanted to be with me, and I was too busy playing video games to appreciate it."

He moves closer, eyes intent on mine. "I know I don't deserve another chance. But I also know we had something real. Something worth fighting for. And if you'd give me the chance, I swear I'd do better. I'd make you a priority. Every day."

His hand reaches for mine, and I'm too stunned to pull away. "I miss you, Say. Not just as my girlfriend. I miss talking to you. Miss making you laugh. Miss having you in my life."

The sincerity in his voice, the raw vulnerability in his expression –– I don't know how to process it. This is what I wanted for so long: Byron recognizing how he'd hurt me, promising to change. But it's come too late, after I've already started falling for someone else.

His eyes search mine, hope and fear battling in his expression.

Then there's a knock at the door. My stomach plummets as I imagine the worst-case scenario –– Cade. I'm immediately flustered, trying not to cry, as I watch Byron head for the door. When he opens it, it's just the food delivery.

I sink into the chair with my heart hammering against my ribs. That was a close call. I try to shake it off, but I'm trembling.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

Suddenly this living room is too small, it's too dark in here, and I feel like this was the worst decision I've ever made.

"Hey," Bryon says, sitting next to me. "I'm sorry it took me all this time to pull my head out of the gutter, but I don't want to throw what we have away."

The words I should speak stick in my throat. I should tell him that Cade wasn't a one-time mistake, that we're still seeing each other, that I'm falling for him despite every reason not to. But I can't form the sentences, can't bring myself to even take a breath. I feel like I'm suffocating, and he's so focused on what he wants to say that he can't see how suffocated I feel.

His hand finds mine, and I'm too stunned to pull away. "We could try again," he suggests softly. "Do it right this time."

Before I can process what's happening, he leans in, clearly intending to kiss me. I stand abruptly, breaking the contact, tears burning behind my eyes.

"I can't," I manage, backing toward the door. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"Say…wait." He rises too, desperation clear in his voice. "Please don't go. I just got dinner. I ordered your favorite — Thai curry, extra spicy."

Guilt washes over me even as I start to sweat. He remembered that random detail. After feeling so fucking invisible to him, I'm surprised he even knows where to get my favorite curry.

"Just dinner," I agree reluctantly, moving back to the couch but choosing the far end this time.

Relief floods his features. "Thank you."

We sit in tense silence as he sets up the food. He arranges the containers on the coffee table. And as I watch him, I realize that I was never in love with Byron, that I was only with him because he asked me out. God, that is so pathetic of me. My jitters finally die down as he offers me a plate.

I force myself to take a bite despite my churning stomach. The food is exactly as I like it, which only intensifies my guilt. Byron is trying. Really trying. And here I am, secretly banging his best friend, currently lying to both of them in different ways.

The sound of a key in the lock freezes us both. There's a knock on it briefly. I take a bite of my food and the door swings open, revealing Cade. His expression morphing from casual to shocked as he takes in the scene before him — Byron and me, dinner spread between us.

He's holding a video game remote like he comes here often.

Time seems to suspend as our eyes lock across the room, the truth of my betrayal laid bare in this single, devastating moment.

"Cade?"