But I was shaking like I was terrified.
"I—" I started, then stopped, unsure how to explain the terror crawling up my spine.
Jake's hands framed my face, thumbs brushing across my cheekbones.
"We don't have to rush this. We don't have to do anything you're not ready for. Unless..." He paused. "Unless you want to?"
It was a clear invitation. I could walk through the door or close it completely. Standing there in our kitchen with Jake's hands on my face and my pulse pounding in my ears, I didn't know what to do.
I wanted him with such feral hunger but also craved safety and control.
"I don't know what I want," I whispered. I recognized the words as one of the most honest things I'd uttered in years.
Jake nodded, and there was no disappointment in his expression. I didn't read frustration either.
He took a deep breath. "Okay. We'll figure it out."
Jake pressed a soft kiss against my forehead and stepped back, giving me space to breathe.
"I should—" I gestured vaguely toward the hallway, my room, and the safety of solitude.
"Yeah," Jake agreed. "Me, too."
Neither of us moved for at least another minute.
"Good night, Evan," Jake said finally.
"Good night."
I made it halfway to my room before I realized I was still shaking.
I didn't stay in my room. Ten minutes later, I was back in the kitchen, restless. The traces of what happened were there—Jake's abandoned beer on the counter with my water glass.
One of my cookies sat on the counter beside his beer, half-eaten and forgotten. It looked ordinary—a chocolate chip with cornflakes, golden brown, and made with the exact careful measurements I always used.
Jake had taken a bite after I left, and somehow that transformed it into something else entirely—evidence of how his presence changed even the most familiar things.
I picked it up and took a bite, tasting butter and vanilla and the faint salt from Jake's fingers. It was still good, still perfectly textured, but eating was like crossing an invisible line between his chaos and my control.
I turned on the cold water and held my hands under the stream, hoping the shock of it would ground me somehow. The water was Lake Superior cold, but it didn't stop the trembling that had started during our kiss and showed no signs of stopping.
We'll figure it out.
Jake's words echoed in my head. He'd seen me falling apart, and he didn't run. He didn't push either. He offered time and space and the radical suggestion that figuring things out was something we could do together.
I dried my hands on the dish towel Jake had folded with surprising precision earlier, and I smiled at the memory. He'd been trying to speak my language and show me he could be careful with the things that mattered to me.
Maybe I could learn to speak his language too. Perhaps I could stop being so afraid of the mess that came with wanting someone.
Standing in the quiet kitchen, pulse still pounding and lips still tender from his kisses, I realized something.
I was tired of being afraid.
Tired of organizing my feelings into neat categories that kept me safe but left me lonely. Tired of watching Jake move through the world with careless confidence while I recorded his infractions and pretended I didn't want to be pulled into his orbit.
He'd asked if I wanted to plunge headlong into a future with him, and I'd told him I didn't know what I wanted. That wasn't entirely true.
I wanted him to kiss me again. I wanted to stop shaking when he touched me. I wanted to discover what it was like to let someone past all my carefully constructed walls.
