Page 52 of One Room Vacancy
But we’ve found something else in the quiet.
She still drinks my coffee, still hogs the blanket, still hums when she’s folding laundry like she doesn’t realize I can hear her from the other room.
We’re in a rhythm. Comfortable, predictable, and I’ve been afraid to touch it, because if back then was her way of drawing a line, I don’t know what happens if I try to cross it.
Right now, she’s in the kitchen, barefoot and singing off-key to some playlist that can’t decide between soulful and poppy. Her hair’s a mess, her tank top’s slipping off one shoulder.
I’m supposed to be chopping onions, but all I can do is watch her.
She catches me staring and arches a brow. “You’re about to lose a thumb.”
“Occupational hazard,” I mutter, setting the knife down as she slides in to take over.
“You’re hopeless,” she says, but it’s warm. Teasing, like she doesn’t mind being seen.
She’s close enough that I can smell her shampoo, feel the heat coming off her skin.
She leans forward to scrape the onions into the pan, her shoulder brushing mine. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move away.
The sizzle picks up as she adds garlic, tossing it all with the flick of her wrist like she’s done it a hundred times before.
And then, as casually as if she’s commenting on the weather, she says, “You should kiss me.”
I freeze. “What?”
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t repeat herself. Just keeps stirring, unbothered, like she didn’t just knock the wind out of me.
I must’ve misheard her, or maybe she’s joking—some offhand, throwaway thing meant to disarm me like usual. Except her tone wasn’t teasing. It was soft, steady, like she meant it.
But she’s still cooking, still calm. If she meant it, wouldn’t she…do something? Look at me? Smile?
Maybe it’s a test, or maybe I’m imagining it because I want it to be real. Maybe I’ve finally lost it.
“Did you…” I clear my throat. “Did you just say I should kiss you?”
She shrugs, still not looking at me. “Yeah.”
Justyeah. Like we’re talking about what time the groceries are being delivered.
My pulse is in my ears now. I can’t read her—I’ve never been able to, not really. But this? This is different. She doesn’t say things like this; she doesn’t ask. She walks away, she shuts down.
But she’s not walking away now. She’s not pulling back.
She’s just…waiting.
Still stirring, still calm.
And I’m standing here trying to remember how to breathe.
She shrugs and repeats herself. “Yeah.”
Just that. No buildup, no punchline.
And I stand there like an idiot. Frozen, because I want to—God, I want to. But I don’t know if I’m allowed to. If this is real, or if she’s going to regret it the second my hands are on her.
The silence stretches a little too long.
She scoffs under her breath, still not facing me. “Man, you really make a girl feel desired, don’t you?”
