Page 31 of Held-

“That’s the understatement of the year,” I mutter under my breath as he dumps the box of pasta into the boiling water.

“It really isn’t princess. When you stop trying to make everyone else happy, and just focus on making yourself happy, complications just disappear.”

Focus on myself.

Right. Like I’ve ever been good at that. Like my brain doesn’t immediately spiral into what-ifs and worst-case scenarios and every possible way I could screw something up. And God, the way he says princess—he has no idea what that does to me. Or maybe he does. Maybe that’s the problem.

The timer dings, and he drains the pasta before combining it with the sauce in a pan. The rich smell of tomatoes and herbs fills the small kitchen, making my stomach growl again.

Great. As if I wasn’t already broadcasting enough of my problems, now my stomach has joined the conversation. Perfect.

He chuckles at the sound, shooting me a glance over his shoulder.

“Someone's hungry.”

“Starving,” I confess, not just talking about food.

And there it is—too honest, too quick. I can feel it hanging in the air between us, heavy and stupidly vulnerable. I wonder if he heard what I really meant. I wonder if he always does. I wonder if that’s why he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what kind of hunger I’m talking about.

God, CeCe, pull it together. It’s pasta, not a confession booth.

He spoons the spaghetti onto two plates, the steam rising in delicate curls between us. Sliding one plate in front of me, he watches intently as I twirl the first bite onto my fork.

I close my eyes as the flavors hit my tongue, a small moan of appreciation escaping before I can stop it. “Oh my God, this is actually really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised, but I can’t take all the credit. The pasta sauce is from one of those fair-trade uppity grocery stores.”

When I look up, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. I take another bite, suddenly aware of the way his attention lingers on my mouth.

The sauce is delicious—simple but rich, with just the right number of herbs. I haven’t eaten anything this satisfying in days, though I’d rather die than admit it after my stupid comment.

“You’ve got something…” Brayden motions toward his own chin.

I swipe at my face with the back of my hand. “Did I get it?”

“No.” He steps closer, rounding the counter with deliberate ease. “Here, let me.”

Before I can protest, his thumb brushes against my chin, wiping away the sauce with a touch so gentle it steals my breath. But he doesn’t pull back. Instead, his hand lingers, cupping my jaw as his gaze meets mine.

Time seems to suspend between us. I can count his heartbeats—or maybe they’re mine—in the silence.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the curve of my jaw. “If that’s what you want.”

But that’s the problem—stopping is the last thing I want. Every nerve ending in my body is alive, hyperaware of his proximity, the heat radiating from him.

“I don’t want you to stop,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can think better of them.

Something flickers across his face—relief, desire, triumph—and then he’s closing the distance, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly turns hungry. His lips are softer than I expected. I gasp against him, and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss until I’m clutching his shoulders just to stay upright.

His hands slide into my hair, cradling the back of my head as he shifts my face toward him, granting him better access. I’ve been kissed before—plenty of times—but never in a way that leaves me feeling claimed, overwhelmed, undone.

When we finally separate, both of us are breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine, his eyes still closed, as though he’s savoring something he’s ached for far too long.

Warmth unfurls in my belly, nerves lighting up as his breath meets mine. My lips are swollen, my pulse thrumming through me, reaching places it shouldn’t. His hands are still tangled in my hair, but now his thumb grazes the edge of my jaw, a slow stroke that makes me shiver.

“I’ve wanted this since high school,” he mutters. “You were the one I couldn’t fucking touch.”

The words rip through me. My fingers fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, desperate. When his mouth crashes back to mine, there’s nothing gentle left, just fire and want and the raw promise of everything we’ve been denying. His tongue teases mine, his teeth catch my bottom lip, and I’m gasping into him, melting, burning, needing more.