Page 38 of One Room Vacancy
I snort, against my better judgment. “You’re the most dramatic man alive.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I’mdramatic?”
“You’re literally staging a condiment crisis.”
Gabe gives a lazy shrug, like he’s unbothered. “I just have standards.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. Next you’ll be monologuing about egg-roll betrayal.”
He smirks. “You say that like Liam wouldn’t.”
“He would. But at least he owns it. You act all chill, but deep down? Secret drama goblin.”
“I’m offended.”
“No, you’re not.”
And just like that, it’s a little easier to breathe. I lean back into the couch, noodles forgotten, my legs stretched out just enough to nudge the coffee table.
We fall quiet again, but it’s not the same kind of quiet.
He moves first—leans forward to grab something, but instead of going for his own carton, he reaches straight into mine. His shoulder grazes mine, just barely, and he plucks out an egg roll like he didn’t just invade my personal space with the stealth of a cat.
“Hey!” I yelp, flailing my chopsticks in his direction as he leans back, smug, holding the egg roll just out of reach like a schoolyard bully with a crush.
“You had three already,” he says, tilting his head. “I’m just enforcing fair distribution.”
“I was saving that one.”
“For what? Emotional support?”
“Exactly.” I lunge for it half-heartedly, just enough to brush his wrist. “Give it back, Keaton.”
He chuckles, low and real, and shifts like he might, only to pull it farther away at the last second.
“Oh, you asshole.”
I launch forward before I think better of it, climbing over the couch cushions and reaching for his wrist. He jerks back in surprise, laughing as I clamber into his space, practically tackling him as we wrestle over a single egg roll as though our pride depends on it.
Because, obviously, it does.
“Give. It. Back,” I huff, hands grappling for his, legs braced awkwardly on either side of his lap now.
“Too slow,” he says, grinning up at me.
I pause. Just for a second.
Because somewhere in the middle of all the movement, I end up straddling him, one hand pressed to his chest, both of us breathing harder than the situation requires. His smile falters, just slightly, and my pulse thuds louder in my ears.
Neither of us moves.
My fingers are still curled around his wrist, but the fight’s long gone. All I can feel is the heat of him beneath me—his chest rising against my palm, the shape of his thighs under mine, the quiet burn in his gaze that says he knows exactly what this looks like. What it feels like.
I should move. Say something, anything.
Instead, my breath catches.
And suddenly I’m thinking about how easy it would be to close the space between us. About how he tastes, how he sounds when I kiss him like I mean it. My body leans in the tiniest bit, betraying every rule I set like it was a suggestion, not a boundary.
