Chapter 2: The Morning After
The first thing Kenzie noticed was the soreness.
It lived in her thighs, a deep ache that radiated up into her hips every time she shifted. Her lower back throbbed with the memory of being pressed into the mattress. And between her legs—Jesus. She felt raw. Used. In the best possible way.
The second thing she noticed was the light.
It poured through the blinds in thick golden stripes, painting the room in shades of amber and honey. Dust motes floated lazy through the beams. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower droned. Normal sounds. Normal morning. Nothing normal about the fact that she was naked in Jason's bed with the sheets tangled around her ankles and the taste of him still on her tongue.
She kept her eyes closed and took inventory.
Her sports bra was somewhere on the floor. Her shorts too. One sock had somehow ended up on the ceiling fan, which was impressive given that she didn't remember throwing it. The pillow beneath her head smelled like him—sweat and deodorant and something woodsy that she'd spent years pretending not to notice.
She heard him breathing.
Slow. Steady. Not the deep rhythm of sleep. The measured pace of someone who was very much awake.
Kenzie cracked one eye open.
Jason was propped on his elbow, head resting in his palm, watching her. His hair was a disaster—sticking up in twelve different directions, flat on one side where he'd been lying on it. There were red marks on his shoulder where she'd dug her nails in. A bruise forming on his neck that she definitely didn't remember giving him.
But it was his expression that made her stomach flip.
That same look from the parking lot. Steady. Deliberate. Like he was seeing her for the first time and wasn't planning on looking away anytime soon.
"How long have you been awake?" she asked. Her voice came out rough, scratched raw from the night before.
"Awhile."
"Creepy."
"I prefer observant."
She snorted. Tried to sit up. The soreness caught her mid-motion and she winced, one hand flying to her lower back.
"Sorry," he said. He didn't sound sorry.
"You're not."
"I'm not."
She flopped back onto the pillow. The ceiling fan spun lazy circles above her. Her sock was still up there, dangling like a surrender flag.
"So," she said. "That happened."
"Yeah."
"Your parents?"
"Dallas. Won't be back till noon."
"Good."
"Yep."
Silence stretched between them. Not awkward, exactly. But loaded. Heavy with everything that had changed in the space of a single night.
Kenzie stared at the ceiling and tried to find a joke. Something to break the tension. Something to prove she was fine, that this didn't mean anything, that he hadn't just rearranged her entire internal architecture with his hands and his mouth and the way he'd said her name when he came.
"Did you know your ceiling has a crack in it?" she asked. "Right there. Looks like a lightning bolt."
He didn't laugh.
She kept going anyway.
"I'm just saying. You might want to get that checked out. Structural damage. Could bring the whole house down. Very dangerous."
"Kenzie."
"I'm serious. One good storm and you're sleeping in the yard."
He reached over. His hand landed on her hip, warm and heavy, and she stopped talking.
"Look at me."
She did.
His eyes were dark. Serious. The morning light caught the gold flecks in them and made them look almost molten.
"I meant every word," he said. "Last night. Every single word."
Her throat tightened. "Jason—"
"I know you're scared. I'm scared too. But I'm not going to pretend this was just—" He gestured vaguely at the rumpled sheets, the discarded clothes, her sock on the ceiling fan. "This wasn't nothing. Not for me."
She swallowed hard. "It wasn't nothing for me either."
"Good." He leaned closer. His nose brushed against hers. "Because I'm not done."
"Not done?"
"Not done with you. Not done with this." His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, fingers splaying wide across her skin. "Not even close."
Kenzie's breath caught.
The soreness between her legs pulsed. Not painful, exactly. More like a reminder. A promise. Her body remembered what he'd done to it, and apparently, it was ready for more.
"I'm going to be late for practice," she said weakly.
"You don't have practice on Sunday."
"Church?"
"You don't go to church."
"Family brunch?"
"Your parents are in Austin for the weekend. You told me last week."
She huffed. "You're too observant. It's annoying."
"I know." He kissed the corner of her mouth. Soft. Teasing. "Tell me to stop."
"Stop."
He pulled back.
The absence of his hand on her stomach was a physical ache. She reached for him, grabbed his wrist, pulled him back.
"I didn't mean it," she admitted.
"Then don't say it."
He kissed her again. Properly this time. Slow. Deep. His tongue slid against hers, lazy and unhurried, and she melted into the mattress beneath him. Her hands found his shoulders, his neck, his hair. She pulled him closer. Closer.
He broke away just long enough to look at her.
"I want to take my time," he said. "Last night was—fuck. Last night was incredible. But I was too wound up. Too desperate. I want to do this right."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I want to memorize you."
His hand traveled down her body. Over her ribs. Past her hip. His fingers brushed through the thatch of hair between her legs, feather-light, and she shuddered.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he said.
"Don't you dare."
He smiled. That crooked, easy smile she'd fallen for years ago. Then he lowered his head and kissed her knee.
Kenzie frowned. "That's not where I—"
"Shh."
He kissed her other knee. Then the inside of her ankle. Then he worked his way back up, slow, agonizing, pressing his lips to the sensitive spot behind her knee, the curve of her calf, the soft skin of her inner thigh.
By the time he reached the crease where her leg met her hip, she was trembling.
"Jason—"
"I said I want to memorize you."
He kissed the hollow of her hip bone. Ran his tongue along the line where her thigh met her pubis. She gasped, hips bucking, and he held her down with one hand spread across her stomach.
"Patience," he said.
"I don't have patience."
"I know." He kissed her mound. "That's what I love about you."
Love.
She didn't have time to process the word because his mouth was on her.
His tongue slid through her folds, slow and firm, and her brain short-circuited. She'd imagined this. God, she'd imagined this a thousand times. But she'd never imagined he'd be this thorough. This patient. This committed to learning every inch of her.
He licked her from opening to clit. Then back down. Then up again. Over and over, unhurried, cataloging every gasp and flinch and sharp intake of breath.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Jason. Fuck."
He hummed against her. The vibration almost threw her over the edge right there.
He kept going.
He circled her clit with his tongue. Laved at it. Sucked. Then he slid a finger inside her, crooking it just so, and she nearly came off the bed.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He added a second finger. Worked them in and out while his mouth stayed on her clit. She was so wet he could hear it. Could feel it. Could taste it. And apparently, he fucking loved it.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "You know that?"
She couldn't respond. Could barely breathe. The pressure was building, coiling tight in her belly, and she was right on the edge—
He stopped.
"Not yet," he said.
Kenzie wanted to kill him.
"What the fuck?" she snapped.
"Told you I wanted to take my time."
"I'm going to murder you."
He laughed. Actually laughed. Then went back to work.
He brought her to the edge twice more and backed off both times. She was a wreck by the third—sweat-slicked, red-faced, cursing him in every language she could think of. She'd have killed him if he wasn't so goddamn good with his mouth.
"I hate you," she panted.
"You don't."
"I do. I really, really do."
He crawled up her body. Kissed her. She tasted herself on his lips and it made her even more desperate.
"You want to come?" he asked.
"Yes. God. Please."
"Ask me nicely."
"Jason—"
"Nicely."
She grabbed his face, pulled him close, met his eyes. "Please. Please make me come. Please. I need it. I need you."
Something shifted in his expression. That steady, deliberate look deepened into something rawer. Something hungry.
"Good girl," he said.
He slid down her body again. Settled between her legs. Pressed his mouth to her clit and worked her with his tongue while his fingers pumped in and out of her, this time without stopping, without backing off.
Kenzie came with his name on her lips.
It ripped through her like a wildfire. Her back arched. Her thighs clamped around his head. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and held on for dear life while the waves crashed over her, one after another, until she was a shaking, sobbing mess on the sheets.
He didn't stop until she pushed him away. Even then, he kissed her inner thighs before looking up at her.
"Good?" he asked.
She could only nod.
He crawled up her body and settled between her legs. His cock was hard, hot, leaking against her thigh. She could feel it twitching.
"I want to be inside you," he said. "Can I?"
"You'd better."
He reached for the nightstand. Condom. Foil. He rolled it on and positioned himself at her entrance.
Then he paused.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
He pushed in.
They both groaned, long and low. She was still tight from her orgasm, still fluttering around his cock, and he had to stop halfway in just to breathe.
"Fuck," he said. "Fuck, you feel—"
"I know."
He pushed the rest of the way in. Bottomed out. And then he just stayed there. Buried in her. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing the same air.
"This is different," he said.
"What?"
"Last night. It was—Jesus. It was amazing. But this—" He kissed her nose. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "I wanted to start slow. I wanted to remember everything."
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Pulled him closer. "Then remember me."
He started to move.
Not fast. Not rough. Not like the night before. This was something else. Something slower. Deeper. Every stroke deliberate. Every thrust a promise.
His hips rolled in a rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a vow.
Kenzie wrapped her arms around his neck. Held on. Matched him stroke for stroke, breath for breath. They found a cadence together—her hips lifting, his hips descending, like two parts of the same machine.
"Kenzie," he said.
"Jason."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He buried himself deep. Held. Looked into her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere. Not after this. Not ever. You're it. You're the one."
Her eyes burned. She blinked fast, trying to stop the tears, and failed.
"Don't cry," he said.
"I'm not crying."
"You're crying."
"Shut up and fuck me."
He laughed. Kissed the tears off her cheeks. Started moving again.
This time, neither of them held back.
They found their rhythm. That perfect, pounding, terrible rhythm that obliterated everything but the two of them. The slap of skin. The creak of the mattress. The wet, obscene sounds of their bodies joining.
Harder. Faster. Both of them gasping, clawing, climbing toward the edge together.
"Come with me," he said. "Come with me, Kenzie. Please."
She did.
They shattered together.
He buried himself deep and emptied himself into the condom. She clenched around him, milking every last drop, body shaking with the force of her second orgasm.
When it was over, he didn't pull out.
He stayed there. Buried in her. His weight braced on his elbows. His face inches from hers.
"I meant it," he whispered.
"What?"
"Everything. You're the one. I'm not letting you go."
Kenzie's throat closed. She couldn't speak. Could only nod.
He kissed her forehead. Her eyelids. The tip of her nose.
Then he pulled out. Tied off the condom. Threw it in the trash. And came back to bed.
He gathered her into his arms and held her tight. Her back to his chest. His lips against her hair.
The ceiling fan spun. The sun climbed higher. Somewhere outside, someone was mowing their lawn. Normal sounds. Normal morning.
But nothing was normal anymore.
Nothing would ever be normal again.
And for the first time in five years, Kenzie didn't mind.
She closed her eyes and let herself fall asleep in the arms of the boy who'd finally seen her.
When she woke up, Jason was gone.
The bed was still warm where he'd been. The sheets still smelled like him. But the room was empty, the door cracked, and she could hear him moving around downstairs.
She sat up. Winced at the soreness. Smiled at the memory.
The letter was the first thing she saw.
It was poking out from under his desk. Crumpled. Unopened. Her handwriting on the front.
She'd given it to him last year. Before the state championships. Before he'd won MVP and she'd sat in the stands and cheered and wanted to die. She'd poured everything into that letter. Every secret. Every confession. Every desperate, stupid hope that maybe he felt something too.
He'd never opened it.
He'd never even mentioned it.
Kenzie stared at the envelope for a long time. The temptation to yank it out and tear it up was almost overwhelming. But then she heard his footsteps on the stairs.
He appeared in the doorway. Shirtless. Hair still a mess. Two mugs of coffee in his hands.
"You're awake," he said. "Good. I made coffee. It's probably terrible. I don't actually know how to make coffee."
She smiled. "It's fine."
He crossed the room. Handed her a mug. Kissed her forehead.
"Everything okay?" he asked, noticing her expression.
"Yeah." She took a sip of coffee. It was terrible. She didn't care. "Everything's fine."
He settled onto the bed beside her. His hand found her knee. His eyes found the letter under the desk.
He didn't say anything.
She didn't either.
Some things could wait.
For now, there was coffee. And sunlight. And each other.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.
The coffee was terrible.
Kenzie drank it anyway, because Jason had made it for her, and because her hands needed something to do besides shake. The mug was chipped on one side, a souvenir from some baseball tournament in Florida. She traced the crack with her thumb while he sat beside her, his knee pressed against hers, warm and solid.
"So," he said.
"So," she echoed.
"We should probably talk about—"
"Don't."
"Kenzie."
"Seriously. Don't." She set the mug down on his nightstand, next to the half-empty protein shake from God knew when. "If you say something like 'what are we' right now, I swear to God I will walk out that door and never speak to you again."
He held up his hands. "Okay. No labels. Got it."
"That's not what I—" She stopped. Rubbed her face. "I don't know what I want. That's the problem. I've spent five years knowing exactly what I wanted, and now I have it, and I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"That good, huh?"
She shot him a look. He was smiling. That easy, infuriating smile that made her want to kiss him and punch him in equal measure.
"I'm serious," she said.
"I know you are." He reached over, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "That's why I'm not pushing. We don't have to figure it out right now. We've got time."
Time.
The word landed strange. Heavy. Like a stone dropped into still water.
Kenzie's gaze drifted to the letter under the desk. The one she'd written a year ago. The one he'd never opened. It sat there in the dust, a yellowing reminder that time wasn't something she'd ever had when it came to him. She'd spent years waiting. Years hoping. Years watching him date other girls while she stood on the sidelines and pretended it didn't matter.
Now he was here. Naked. Looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. And all she could think about was how long it would last.
"I should go," she said.
Jason's smile faltered. Just a flicker. Barely there. But she caught it.
"Why?"
"Because I need to shower. And eat something that isn't coffee. And—" She gestured vaguely at the room. The clothes on the floor. The condom wrapper on the nightstand. "Process."
"Okay." He nodded. Slow. Measured. "I get that."
She waited for him to push. To ask her to stay. To give her a reason to ignore the voice in her head telling her to run before this got any more complicated.
He didn't.
Instead, he stood up and walked to his dresser. Pulled out a t-shirt—old, faded, the logo of some barbecue joint in Austin. Handed it to her.
"Here," he said. "You'll need something to wear home."
Kenzie took the shirt. Pressed it to her face. It smelled like him.
"Thanks."
"You want me to drive you?"
"No." She pulled the shirt over her head. It hung past her thighs, practically a dress. "I need to walk. Clear my head."
"Okay." He stepped closer. Tipped her chin up with one finger. "You're not running, right?"
"I'm walking."
"Kenzie."
"I'm not running." She met his eyes. Held his gaze. "I just need to breathe. Figure out how to be a person who isn't actively lying to herself anymore."
He studied her for a long moment. Then he nodded and let her go.
"Text me when you get home."
She grabbed her shorts off the floor—still damp from the night before—and pulled them on under his shirt. Socks. Shoes. Her phone from the charger on his nightstand.
"Jason."
"What?"
She paused at the door. Turned back. He was standing in the middle of his room, shirtless, hair a disaster, looking at her like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking.
"This doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you," she said.
"I know."
"Five years. You owe me five years."
"I know."
"And I'm not going to be easy about this. I'm not going to just—fall in line. Pretend everything's fine because you finally pulled your head out of your ass."
"Wouldn't expect you to."
She narrowed her eyes. "Stop being so agreeable."
"I'm not being agreeable. I'm being honest." He crossed his arms. The movement made his biceps flex. She hated how much she noticed. "You want to be mad? Be mad. You want to make me work for it? I'll work. I'm not going anywhere, Kenzie. That's the whole point."
She didn't have a response for that.
So she left.
The walk home was brutal.
August in Texas meant the air was thick as soup. By the time she reached the end of Jason's street, sweat was dripping down her back. By the time she hit the main road, her shirt was glued to her skin.
She didn't mind. The heat gave her something to focus on. Something to feel besides the chaos in her head.
What the fuck had she done?
Not the sex. The sex was—well. The soreness was a reminder. A good one. But everything else. The confession. The letter. The fact that she'd just spent the night with Jason and then walked out the door without a plan.
She'd spent five years building walls. Protecting herself. Convincing herself that friendship was enough, that being in his life was better than not being in it at all. And she'd just demolished all of that in one night.
Now what?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out.
Jason: You get home yet?
She typed back: Not yet. Walking.
Jason: Okay. Be safe.
She stared at the screen. Three words. He'd sent three words, and her chest was already tight.
This was the problem. This was exactly the problem. She'd spent so long wanting him to notice her that she'd never considered what it would feel like when he did. She'd never rehearsed the part where he actually wanted her back.
The house was empty when she got there.
She'd known it would be. Her parents were in Austin for the weekend, visiting her aunt and uncle. They wouldn't be back until Tuesday. She had two days alone.
She took the longest shower of her life. Stood under the water until it ran cold, letting it wash away the sweat and the doubt and the lingering feeling of his hands on her body. It didn't work. She could still feel him.
She dried off and pulled on pajamas—real ones this time, not Jason's t-shirt. She needed to stop wearing his clothes. Needed to stop pretending this was casual.
She made herself a sandwich. Ate it standing at the kitchen counter. Then she went to her room and lay on her bed and stared at the ceiling.
She should have told him to fuck off.
She should have told him that five years was too long, that she wasn't going to be his consolation prize, that he needed to figure his shit out before he dragged her into it.
But she'd kissed him instead. Let him fuck her. Came twice on his fingers and once on his cock and now she was lying in her childhood bedroom, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars she'd stuck to her ceiling in middle school, and she had no idea who she was.
Her phone buzzed.
Jason: Can I call you?
She typed back: Not yet.
Jason: Why?
Kenzie: Because I need to think.
Jason: About?
She didn't answer. She turned the phone face-down and closed her eyes.
But she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face. The way he'd looked at her in the morning light. The way he'd said her name. The way he'd whispered that he wasn't going anywhere, like he was making a promise he intended to keep.
She sat up. Grabbed her phone. Called him.
He answered on the first ring.
"Hey."
"Hey." She picked at a loose thread on her comforter. "I was trying to sleep."
"Didn't work?"
"No."
"Me neither."
Silence stretched between them. She could hear him breathing. Could picture him lying on his bed, staring at the same crack in his ceiling she'd noticed that morning.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop being scared."
"That's not helpful."
"You're right." He exhaled. Slow. "I'm scared too."
"Of what?"
"Of fucking this up. Of hurting you. Of you deciding that five years is too long a wait and that I'm not worth the effort."
She closed her eyes. "Jason—"
"I know I have a lot to make up for. I know I've been oblivious. I know I probably hurt you a hundred times without even noticing. But I want to try. I want to be better. I want to be what you deserve."
Kenzie pressed the phone harder to her ear. "What if I don't know what I deserve?"
"Then I'll help you figure it out."
"That's a lot of pressure."
"I'm not trying to pressure you. I'm just—" He paused. "I'm just saying I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere. And I'm going to prove it, even if it takes a while."
She swallowed hard. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"That's all I can give you right now. Just—okay."
"That's enough." His voice was softer now. Warmer. "That's more than enough."
They stayed on the phone for another hour.
Didn't talk about anything important. Just talked. The way they used to. About her sister's wedding coming up in October. About his college visits. About the new weightlifting coach at the gym and how much he hated the guy's intensity drills.
It felt normal. Familiar. Like they hadn't just crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.
But underneath it, something had shifted. A new tension. A new awareness. Every time he laughed, she felt it in her chest. Every time he paused, she wondered what he was thinking.
When they finally hung up, it was past three in the morning.
Kenzie set her phone on the nightstand and stared at the ceiling.
She could still taste him. That morning-after taste. Coffee and salt and something else she couldn't name. She knew it would fade eventually. Knew that for once in her life, she wanted it to stay.
She closed her eyes.
She slept.
The next morning, she checked the mail on autopilot.
Junk. Bills. A catalog from some clothing store her mom liked. And then—a letter.
From Jason's address.
She opened it standing in the driveway, still in her slippers, hair unbrushed.
It was the letter. The one from under his desk. The one she'd written a year ago. He'd found it. He'd opened it. There was a note scribbled on the back, in his handwriting. Blocky. Slightly smeared. Like he'd written it fast.
"I read it. I'm sorry I didn't read it sooner. I'm sorry I didn't open it the day you gave it to me. I was scared. I was an idiot. I've been an idiot for years. But I know now. I know everything. And I'm not going to pretend I don't anymore."
She read it twice.
Then she walked back inside, sat down on the kitchen floor, and cried.