Page 32 of Shared by my Ex’s Best Friends (Twisted Desires #2)
Chapter thirty-two
MAYA
I don’t know how to describe this without sounding like I’ve completely lost my mind, because on paper, it shouldn’t work. Not even close.
Three guys. One girl. No road map. No rules. Just a connection that defies logic.
The last few weeks have passed in a blur of stolen glances, breathless laughter, and quiet touches that say more than words ever could. The guys and I—we’ve fallen into this rhythm. A secret one, sure, but one that feels… good. Safe. Sacred, even.
The world outside doesn’t know. But inside these walls, it’s everything.
We rotate nights, dates, combinations. My little house, with its scuffed hardwood floors and too-small kitchen, has become our home base.
My furniture carries the imprint of more bodies than it was designed for. My fridge is always full, my laundry basket perpetually overflowing with socks that aren’t mine. And still, it works.
Some nights it’s all four of us crammed on the couch, limbs tangled under soft throw blankets, the TV flickering light across the room as a movie plays in the background that no one’s really paying attention to.
Jake always makes snarky commentary—loudly—until Liam throws popcorn at him with deadly precision. Ethan just watches us with that soft, quiet smile that turns my insides to molten sugar.
Sometimes I fall asleep halfway through, head in someone’s lap, fingers laced with someone else’s. My body relaxed in a way I never thought possible.
I’ve never felt safer.
One night, it was just me and Jake. He showed up at my front door grinning like a lunatic and holding a canvas grocery bag full of baking supplies—sprinkles, food coloring, three kinds of chocolate chips, and a suspiciously large bottle of rum extract.
“Let’s make something that explodes,” he said, eyes gleaming, like that was a perfectly normal request.
Thirty minutes later, the kitchen was a war zone. There was flour on the ceiling, melted chocolate smeared across my counter, and cookies shaped like dinosaurs baking unevenly in the oven.
“Why dinosaurs?” I asked, laughing so hard I had to lean against the counter for support as I wiped green frosting off my cheek.
Jake’s eyes sparkled as he sidled up beside me and whispered, “Because hearts are boring. You deserve extinct sugar creatures.” Then he grabbed my waist and spun me around like we were in a baking-themed rom-com. The kiss that followed was warm and messy and tasted like vanilla
With Ethan, it’s always quieter. Calmer. He took me to this hidden wine bar downtown, nestled between a secondhand bookstore and an old florist that always smells like eucalyptus and crushed rose petals.
Inside, the walls were brick and velvet, candles flickered low on tiny wooden tables, and soft jazz played from invisible speakers. It felt like we’d stepped into another world entirely—one where no one could find us.
He never rushes. Never interrupts. Just listens to everything I say.
“You always look like you’re holding something back,” he said that night, his thumb brushing gently over the inside of my wrist.
“I probably am,” I admitted.
He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what. He just took my hand in both of his and held it under the table. Silent, sure, and steady.
Liam’s different. He doesn’t fill silence or reach to pull me out of it. He just lets me be.
One night, he drove us out to the lake in his beat-up SUV with a trunk full of blankets and two mismatched thermoses of hot chocolate. The moon was a silver coin overhead, the lake glittering with its reflection.
We lay on the weathered dock in silence, the scent of pine and cold air all around us, the water gently lapping against the wood.
“You think this is going to break us?” I whispered after ten minutes of quiet.
Liam didn’t even look over when he answered. “No,” he said softly. “I think it’s going to make us.”
It’s thrilling.
It’s terrifying.
It’s mine.
I have Ava, who doesn’t bat an eye when I text her about any of it—who sends back chaotic gifs and relentless heart emojis and the occasional “You are living a literal dream.”
She’s the only person who knows everything. Well—almost everything.
Maya: You’re not going to believe this but Jake just tried to serenade me. With a ukulele.
Ava: Did you melt?
Maya: I laughed so hard I cried. But yes, I melted. Shut up.
Maya: Liam kissed my shoulder when he thought I was asleep.
Ava: UGH STOP IT THAT’S SO INTIMATE I CAN’T brEATHE
Maya: Ethan brought me a hardcover of that out-of-print poetry book I told him about once. ONCE.
Ava: Marry him.
Maya: Which one??? ??????
Sometimes she sends a whole chain of caps-locked screaming. Sometimes it’s just one quiet line.
Ava: Are you okay?
That’s the one that guts me, because for all the glitter and glow and longing, the fear is still there. Pressed just under the surface.
There are moments. Like when I catch Liam watching Ethan when he thinks no one’s looking, his expression soft with something that isn’t just friendship.
Or the way Jake’s sarcasm always fades into something tender when Liam rolls his eyes and mutters a dry comeback. Or how Ethan watches us all like he’s waiting for someone to figure out a truth he doesn’t know how to say.
Some nights, it feels like I’m floating.
Like we’re suspended in the golden light of something pure. I lie in bed between them—Ethan’s hand resting over my heart, Jake curled into my side, Liam’s fingers laced with mine above the covers.
Their breathing steadies me.
And I think, if this is wrong… maybe I don’t want to be right.
But that thought carries teeth. Because the truth is—we can’t hide forever. And what we are… it doesn’t fit inside neat little boxes. It doesn’t make sense in polite conversations or Instagram captions.
So we keep our secret. We tuck ourselves into quiet corners. Morning pancakes made together in my kitchen—Jake burning everything, Liam rolling his eyes, Ethan kissing my shoulder as he pours the juice.
It’s chaotic. It’s beautiful. It’s ours.
***
The quiet is comfortable tonight.
The overhead light is off, just a table lamp provides a golden glow across the living room. Rain whispers against the windows, a gentle rhythm that matches Ethan’s breathing beside me.
The Thai food is half-eaten. The wine bottle is mostly empty. My head rests on his shoulder as a documentary about deep-sea bioluminescence plays, low and droning.
Ethan smells like cedar and clean cotton, like the soap he keeps in my shower that I’ve started using just to feel closer to him when he’s not here.
It should feel perfect.
But the silence… it opens doors I’ve been trying to keep shut.
What happens when this stops being new? When the shine wears off and the cracks show? What happens when one of them decides they need something simpler—someone simpler?
What happens when I’m no longer enough for three people trying so hard to love me the right way?
Ethan shifts slightly, reaches for the wine glass, and glances at me. “Want more?”
“Sure,” I say, voice a little too quiet.
He pours slowly, carefully, like always. Every movement intentional. I watch his face, the way the light catches on the curve of his jaw, the soft crease between his brows. He’s always so careful. So present.
The words bubble up before I can stop them.
“Do you ever think—”
He turns to me fully, patient. Steady. “Yeah?”
My breath catches.
Say it , my mind begs. Say you’re scared. Say you don’t know how to hold them all without breaking .
Instead, I smile—thin and fast. “Do you ever think we should learn to cook something that isn’t eggs or pasta?”
He pauses. Long enough to let me know he heard the truth behind the joke.
But Ethan just leans back with a smile, eyes gentle. “I did make you risotto once.”
“Right. The slightly crunchy one.”
“Al dente,” he says with a smirk.
I laugh, the sound too brittle around the edges, but it passes. I lean into his side again and close my eyes.
I don’t say: I’m scared I’m not enough.
I don’t say: I love you so much it hurts.
I don’t say: Please don’t go.
Instead, I laugh. I pretend.
When I glance up again, Ethan’s already looking at me. Maybe he heard it anyway—and he’s already decided to stay.