Page 156 of Well That Happened

She’s gone.

So are Grayson and Hunter.

And the part of my brain that’s been trained to stay breezy and unbothered is… not exactly quiet.

I know how this works. We agreed. We’re in this together.

Still.

There’s this low hum of tension in the back of my skull—the kind I usually get before a big game or a bad hit.

It’s not jealousy, exactly.

It’s… the ache of missing her when she’s still technically under the same roof.

“Caleb,” Mom says, nudging me out of my head. “You okay?”

I blink. “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

She hands me the last plate and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t think too hard, kiddo. Just enjoy the holidays.”

I nod.

And I try.

But as I dry my hands and look toward the hallway, I can’t help but wonder—

What are they doing?

And why does it already feel like I’m missing something I don’t want to miss?

Because the truth is, I’m in love with her. It’s not even a question anymore. Rilee’s it for me—the whole damn sky.

I’ve had more hookups than I care to admit these past four years, girls whose names I couldn’t remember if you paid me. But none of them mattered. None of themstuck. And now? It’s like the universe finally shut up because she walked in. My brave, brilliant, overworked girl who studies until her hands cramp and still finds the time to laugh like she means it. Who sucks cock like she’s starving for it and kisses like she’s memorizing your soul. I’d burn the whole world down for her.Focus, dude.My mom’s asking about pie crusts or something. Later. I’ll deal with it later.

The kitchen’s quiet except for the soft hum of the microwave reheating milk and the clink of a spoon in a mug. Dad and Hunter are camped out in the den watching the game. Sierra left to meet friends, thank God. And I’m just here for a late-night fix of cocoa and whatever marshmallows haven’t been obliterated by Grayson’s “experimental layering.”

When I step into the kitchen, I see her.

Rilee’s in one of my old hoodies, hair loose, toes peeking out from under the hem of her leggings. She’s stirring a mug of hot chocolate and humming something off-key under her breath.

My heart kicks. Hard.

“Hey,” I say softly.

She looks up and smiles. “Hey yourself.”

I cross the room, take the spoon from her hand, and set it aside. My hands find her waist, and I tug her in.

The kiss is soft at first—just lips brushing, slow and familiar.

“I like your parents,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Your mom’s a Christmas machine.”

I chuckle. “She’s been like that since I was little. She used to label the lights on the tree by wattage.”

She laughs, and it lands somewhere under my ribs.

Then she kisses me again. This time, deeper.

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