I stared at the darkened TV screen, seeing our reflections like ghosts. I didn't answer his question, but my silence was probably an answer.
Jake shifted slightly, and his knee brushed mine through the fabric of my sweatpants.
"I shouldn't have told you what to do," I said finally.
"I shouldn't have broken your bowl."
"It was already chipped."
"Doesn't mean it deserved to die."
I almost smiled. Only Jake Riley could make me want to laugh in the middle of an emotional crisis. "You stress-clean when you're upset."
"You stress-bake. We're both disasters, only different flavors."
Like the air before a thunderstorm, I sensed an electrical charge between us. Jake's breathing was slightly uneven, and when I risked a glance at his profile, his jaw was tight.
"Talk to me," I said.
Jake's head fell back against the couch cushions. "I keep waiting for you to figure out I'm not worth the trouble."
"What trouble?"
"All of it. The socks, the singing, how I make everything bigger than it needs to be. And me wanting things I shouldn't."
A lump formed in my throat. "Like what?"
Instead of answering, Jake reached out and touched the back of my hand resting on my knee. It was only his fingertips.
He spoke quietly. "This. Whatever this is."
His touch was electric, sending heat up my arm and straight to my chest. I stared at our hands—his fingers tan against my pale skin. He traced each knuckle.
"I keep trying not to want this," he whispered.
"Me, too."
We moved at the same time.
Jake's hair brushed my cheek before his lips did. He pressed in, mouth opening against mine, no hesitation or apology. He reached for me, first the side of my jaw, then behind my head, fingers tangling in the short hair at my nape.
I forgot about breathing. I forgot about water stain number nine and whether or not I should be the one to make the first move. Jake took care of it.
He tasted like spearmint and winter air, and when his tongue nudged at the seam of my lips, I parted them for him. The kiss was hungry—maybe not movie quality, too messy for that.
Jake kissed like he played: all-in, reckless, and a little wild. My teeth caught his lip, and he grinned into my mouth, a flicker of surprise and delight.
I pulled him closer, my hand sliding up between his shoulder blades. The heat coming off him was ridiculous. He wore multiple layers and felt like a radiator pressed against me.
He broke the kiss first, but stayed close when he asked, "Do you want to stop?"
How could I answer that?
I'd labeled Jake from the moment he moved in—Chaotic Roommate, Viral Disaster, Beautiful Mess—like I could file him away in some mental container marked "Temporary" and pretend my pulse didn't quicken every time he walked into a room.
Sitting in the dark with his lips near mine, breathing the same air, I realized I'd been wrong about the label.
It should have read:Mine. If I'm brave enough to keep him.
