Page 36 of Holiday Interference
She tries again. Misses again. This time she yelps when I move just in time, and I can’t help the low laugh that slips out. It’s the first time all day my chest doesn’t feel tight.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she mutters, cheeks pink.
“You started it.”
We reset. Again. Fingers brush. Palms slap. Her hair falls forward when she leans in, and the smell of her shampoo hits me hard—some soft, warm thing I don’t have a name for but already associate with her.
It goes straight to my head, grounding me and undoing me in equal measure.
“You flinched,” she accuses, jabbing a finger at me.
“You blinked.”
“You flinched first.”
“You’re making up rules now.”
“Maybe.”
She lunges, trying to slap the top of my hand, but I dodge and grab her wrists instead, twisting just enough to throw her off balance. Her laughter bubbles up, wild and breathless, and it’s fuckingeverything.
Somehow we’re closer now. Knees brushing. My fingers still wrapped around her wrists. Her hair a curtain between us, her breath feathering across my jaw.
And just like that, the game stops.
Her hands go still in mine. My pulse slams against my ribs like it’s trying to get out. She looks up, and our faces are close—too close. Her mouth is right there. Parted. Pink. Breath hitching like she feels it too.
Every molecule in my body pulls tight, heat crawling under my skin, coiling low in my gut. My hands don’t move, but my grip tightens, just slightly. She doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The laughter fades, replaced by something heavier. Slower. A current we’re both caught in now, neither one of us willing to break it.
She looks down at our hands, then back at me.
“Best two out of three?” she whispers, like it’s a joke, but her voice is different now—softer, laced with something unspoken.
I don’t answer. Because if I open my mouth right now, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
And if I move even a fraction closer, I won’t stop.
Her laugh still echoes in my ears, soft and wrecked from too much teasing and not enough space.
“I need water,” she says, breathless as she pulls away, and I let her go. “You want anything?”
She has no idea how bad I want something, but it isn’t water.
I follow her without answering. Not for the water. Just to keep her in front of me.
To stay in motion before the silence swallows the want clawing up my spine.
The kitchen glows under low pendant lights, making the room feel warm and cozy. She moves across the hardwood like she lives here.
Like this isn’t strange or temporary.
She reaches for a glass in the cabinet above the sink. The hoodie riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin above the waistband of her sweatpants.
I should look away.
