Page 95 of Faking It Right
And he did.
His lips crashed against mine, all urgency and heat that had nothing to do with the Thai chili and everything to do with him. My hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as he pulled me closer.
The warmth from his body rivaled the lingering fire of my green curry, creating a perfect blend of flavors and sensations that made my head spin. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, drawing a moan from me.
I could have happily explored all night, mapping every inch of his mouth, but Ryker pulled back, his cheeks flushed and breathing uneven.
He nodded toward the TV. “As much as I’m enjoying this, the ghost funeral is reaching its dramatic conclusion.”
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically, settling against the couch. “But I’m holding you to a continuation of this discussion later.”
Ryker grinned, grabbing the remote and pressing play. “It’s a date.”
On the screen, Marty, with tears in his eyes, stepped up to the podium to do a dramatic reading of a passage from a dissertation he’d blindly pulled from the closest shelf behind him. “In honor of today’s solemn celebration, Minerva has asked me to read her favorite passage fromA Statistical Analysis of Left Sock Disappearance in Residential Laundry Settings.”
He flipped to a random page to read aloud as Ryker and I snickered.“‘The p-value of 0.0478 suggests a statistically significant correlation between the disappearance of left socks and lunar cycles, particularly during the waxing gibbous phase when paired with fabric softener use exceeding 2.3 capfuls.’”
Marty’s voice cracked, making us howl with laughter as he continued.“‘This groundbreaking discovery challenges our fundamental understanding of both laundry science and possibly the very fabric of the spacetime continuum itself.’” He closed the dissertation, nodding solemnly during his performance, which made it even funnier with each rewatch. “Wise words, Minerva. Thank you for letting us honor your knowledge from beyond.”
We lost our shit when he clutched the book to his chest, looked heavenward, and whispered, “Your academic journey is complete, Minerva. Your dedication to sock science will never be forgotten.”
Dr. Shade, with profound gravitas, held up a diploma that looked like it was done last-minute by an unskilled intern. “With this conferral of your posthumous PhD, your scholarship on the intersubjective nature of paranormal-textual engagement has ensured your permanent place in the pantheon of post-corporeal academic achievement.”
It was a mystery to me how she could deliver lines like that with a completely straight face. Ryker and I kept riffing off it as the episode wrapped up.
The comfortable ritual of mocking our favorite ridiculous show felt both unchanged and completely different now that we were dating for real. Our synchronized eye rolls and inside jokes about “spectral academic validation” hummed with a new harmony.
As the credits rolled, Ryker yawned behind his hand.
“Tired?” I asked, resisting the urge to pull him into my arms.
“A little,” he admitted. “Driving always wears me out.”
“Want to watch the next episode, or are you done?”
He hesitated, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. “Maybe we should call it a night. It’s been a long day.”
“Sounds good to me.” I stood up and gathered our plates, taking them to the kitchen sink. When I returned, Ryker was still sitting on the couch, looking uncertain.
“So…” he started, then trailed off.
“So,” I echoed, understanding the unspoken question hanging between us but wanting him to ask it.
We hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements since getting home. At his parents’ house, sharing a bed had been a given, both for our cover story and because we’d wanted to. But in our apartment with separate bedrooms, the decision wasn’t as clear-cut.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I told him, sitting back down beside him. “No pressure for anything. If you want space tonight, I completely understand. Being around your family nonstop for a week is enough to make anyone need some alone time.”
“It’s not that. I’m confused because I don’t know what the protocol is here. Are we sleeping together now? Separately? I don’t want to assume.”
“There’s no protocol,” I assured him. “We can do whatever feels right. If you prefer to sleep in your own bed tonight, I won’t be upset. And if you want company…” I let the offer hang in the air.
Ryker fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “What do you want?”
“Honestly?” I met his eyes. “I’d love to stay with you. But I care more about your comfort, so if it’s not what you need, then that’s fine.”
He nodded, seeming to weigh his options. “I’d like to do that,” he said, the admission soft but clear. “If that’s okay.”
My heart did a full-on Broadway kick line in my chest, but my expression stayed neutral. “More than okay. My room or yours?”
