Page 56 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
“Good,” I say, keeping my tone breezy. “Non-thing secured. Ends Sunday. Totally reasonable arrangement.”
He huffs out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, and drags a hand over his face. Then, finally, he shifts—kicking off his shoes, shrugging his hoodie off, and sliding under the blanket beside me.
The mattress dips with his weight, the warmth of him immediately seeping into me, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning like an idiot.
Three days. That’s all I asked for. But right now, with Max beside me in my bed, it feels like more than I ever thought I’d get.
TWENTY
MAX
Morning creepsin through the slats of the blinds, pale gold spilling across tangled blankets and the steady rise and fall of Eli’s chest. He’s curled against me, warm and loose, hair a mess against my shoulder. I should move. I should get up, start bracing for the day, but I don’t. I just let myself feel it—the weight of him tucked against me, the quiet hum of contentment that settles in my bones.
The storm’s over. The silence of campus won’t last long. And somehow, that feels worse than it should. I want to stay in this bubble forever.
By the time we shuffle down to the tiny dorm kitchen, it’s just the two of us again, hunched over mismatched mugs of coffee and half-burnt toast as if nothing about the last few days—or last night—shifted the ground between us. Except it did. I can feel it in the way his knee brushes mine under the table, in the way his hand lingers too long when he slides the butter knife across to me.
“You know,” he says around a mouthful of toast, “if we’d been the January spread instead of December, we could’ve done, like…New Year’s fireworks or champagne flutes or something.”
I grunt, taking a sip of coffee. “And what pose exactly would you have subjected me to?”
His grin is instant, wicked. He sets down his toast and mimes blowing a noisemaker, complete with the little squeak sound effect. “You're shirtless, obviously. Confetti falling, me draped across your lap—perfect start to the year.”
I choke on my coffee, and he laughs so hard he nearly tips over his chair.
It should annoy me. Hell, it does annoy me. But underneath, I feel it—warmth, easy and unguarded. Something I don’t want to let go of. It’s been missing from my life for way too long, and somehow, Eli brings it all out.
I stare into my cup, fingers tight around the handle. I swallow hard. “I don’t want this weekend to be over,” I admit quietly. “I don’t want this thing with you to be over.”
The words hang between us, it’s way more than I should’ve let slip. Eli stills, toast halfway to his mouth. For a heartbeat, I regret saying anything, but then he sets it down, brushing crumbs from his fingers, and leans forward. His knee presses more firmly against mine, deliberate now, not accidental.
“It doesn’t have to be over,” he says softly. His eyes are steady, cutting through me, daring me to argue. “We don’t have to make it a thing for everyone else to see. If you want it quiet—if you want it just between us—then it can stay that way.”
Something in my chest tightens, dangerous and tempting all at once. He’s offering me an out and a way forward at the same time, as though he knows exactly how much I want this and exactly how terrified I am of it.
I drag a hand down my face, buying time I don’t need, because the truth is already clawing its way out. “You’d be okay with that? With hiding it from your whole team and your friends?”
Eli’s smile is small but sure. “I’ve been okay with that since the beginning, Max. This? Us? I want it, even if it’s just ours for now. Even if I can’t scream it to the whole world.”
The air in the room shifts, lighter and heavier at the same time. I exhale slowly, a laugh catching in my throat. “Then maybe…I don’t want it to end.”
Eli’s hand slides over mine on the table, his thumb brushing once against my knuckles before he pulls back like he hasn’t just set my pulse hammering.
“Good,” he says simply, and goes back to his toast as if he hasn’t just rewritten the rest of my weekend—maybe the rest of everything.
We finish eating in a silence that isn’t heavy anymore. It’s easy, warm, threaded through with something unspoken that feels steady and real. When I push my plate away, Eli scoops it up before I can stop him, stacking it on top of his own.
“You cooked,” he says, already moving toward the sink. “I’ll clean.”
I snort. “You call burning toast cooking?”
“Artfully singeing it, thank you very much,” he shoots back over his shoulder, running the tap.
I join him anyway, bumping his hip with mine as I drop the mugs into the sink. Water splashes, catching on his sweater, and he yelps as though it’s scalding instead of lukewarm.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, but my mouth twitches with a traitorous smile.
He grins, hair falling into his eyes as he elbows me back. “And yet you still slept in my bed. I think you enjoy my impossible. And ridiculous. And…” He taps his chin, thinking of more of the half hearted insults I’ve sent his way. “And insufferable, unbelievable…did I miss any?” Eli’s grin widens, too smug for his own good.
