“It’s visually oppressive against that wall.”
“It holds socks, not secrets. It’s not a regime.”
But she’s already pushing, bracing her hands against the wood. “Help me.”
We shove the thing to the left wall. Pause. Maddie frowns at it, like it’s personally offended her.
“Now it’s blocking the closet.”
“We rescued it from the middle of the floor. That counts.”
“Try the right wall.”
We drag it over. Both of us eye it, heads tilted. The dresser looks the same as before, only more in the sun.
“It was better where it started,” I point out.
She groans. “You’re supposed to support my vision.”
“I am. The dresser is just suffering from commitment issues.”
Back to the center. All the effort, zero progress. Somewhere in the chaos, I end up with paint in my hair, and Maddie points, cackling so hard she almost chokes.
Next up on the random side quest list, the bed. Maddie wants it angled for “personality.”
We angle it. The effect is IKEA showroom meets low-budget horror movie. Both of us stare, neither willing to be the first to say it, until Maddie grumps, “It looks like a haunted house.”
I lose it. So does she. We’re doubled over, laughing against the half-finished wall, breathless, tears tracking clean lines through paint-smudged faces. The room’s a wreck with furniturescattered, drop cloth bunched, lavender streaks sticky in the corners. But it feels alive.
She wipes her eyes, smearing fresh violet across her cheek. “I think,” she says, breath hitching, “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“No one does,” I tell her. “The secret is, everyone’s just shoving dressers around and hoping it looks on purpose.”
She looks at me, really looks, and her smile goes soft at the edges. Not her retail smile, not hiding anything. The real one, saved for moments that crack her open.
“You always know how to make me feel better about being a disaster,” she says.
“Practice,” I reply. “You specialize in disaster. I’ve had to get good.”
She laughs, bright and true, echoing off the half-painted walls. And then she leans against me, shoulder pressed close, the two of us wedged between lavender and faded white, the laughter fading and something heavier settling in its place. We’re still grinning, close, hip to hip, as our eyes catch.
And then, just like that, neither of us is laughing. She’s looking at me like I’ve just handed her a secret, the kind you can only tell with your hands. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, the tiniest smudge of lavender paint on her chin. I want to taste it. I want to taste her.
I don’t do anything at first—not a single move, not a breath. The air between us gets heavy, crackling with what we both want but haven’t let ourselves want out loud yet. My heart is hammering so hard I could rival a pneumatic drill, which is embarrassing but, honestly, not surprising at this point.
I reach up, thumb swiping that paint fleck from her jaw, slow and deliberate, like I’m testing if I’m allowed. She leans in, chasing my touch. I make a noise in the back of my throat, low and unguarded, and then—
We’re kissing. If that word is even big enough for what’s happening. At first, it’s clumsy, all teeth and laughter and the zing of what-the-hell-are-we-even-doing. Then it slides into something deeper, every muscle in me zeroing in on the heat of her body, the press of her chest against mine, the sharp, sweet scent of her sweat under paint and jasmine lotion.
Maddie’s hands are in my hair, tugging the bun loose, fingers scraping my scalp, and I lose track of every coherent thought except wanting more. She tastes like summer and want and stubbornness; she tastes like home.
I crowd her back until her spine hits the wall, not gentle, not rough, just blunt because I can’t not. The drop cloth crinkles under our boots, furniture pushed wild behind us, the lavender paint on the wall gleaming wet and half-done. I brace a hand beside Maddie’s head, the other on her hip, locking us in this small, electric space.
She’s grinning into my mouth, that messy, gorgeous laugh still hovering at the edge of her lips. I don’t even bother hiding the smile that splits mine—I want her to feel how good this is, how wild and right.
“Jordan,” she whispers, voice gone ragged.
“Yeah?”
