Chapter 3: The Morning After, Part Two
The sunlight hit her face like a slap.
Kenzie groaned. Rolled over. The sheets twisted around her legs, damp with sweat, and she kicked them off. Her mouth tasted like something had died in it. Her head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache—not from drinking, but from crying. From the kind of crying that left your whole body hollowed out and raw.
She sat up.
Jason's shirt was still on her. The barbecue joint logo. The fabric soft from too many washes. She'd worn it to bed without thinking. Now the collar was stretched and the hem was wrinkled and it still smelled like him.
The letter was on her nightstand.
She'd read it three more times before falling asleep. Memorized the blocky handwriting. The slight smear on the word "idiot" where his pen had dragged. The way he'd underlined "I know everything" twice.
Her phone said 9:47.
She had eighteen text messages from him.
She scrolled through them. The first few were from around midnight—checking in, making sure she got home okay. Then a gap. Then more, starting around six in the morning. Increasingly unhinged.
You awake?
I'm outside your house.
Your car is here so I know you're home.
I brought breakfast. Well. Ingredients.
Your front door was unlocked. That's not safe btw.
I'm in your kitchen.
You don't have any butter.
I found butter.
The butter is expired.
I'm using it anyway.
Are you dead?
Please don't be dead.
I'm making pancakes.
I'm not good at making pancakes.
Kenzie.
Kenzie.
Kenzie.
She was already out of bed.
The hallway was dark, the blinds in the living room still drawn. But light spilled from the kitchen—that weird fluorescent glow that made everything look slightly green. And underneath it, she could hear something sizzling. And someone cursing.
She padded barefoot across the linoleum.
Jason stood at her stove.
He was wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt that had seen better days. His hair was still wet, like he'd showered before coming over. He had a spatula in one hand and a look of intense concentration on his face.
The kitchen smelled like smoke.
"Shit," he muttered. "Shit, shit, shit."
He flipped something in the pan. It landed crooked. Half of it was black.
Kenzie leaned against the doorframe.
"You're burning my pancakes," she said.
He spun around.
The spatula clattered to the floor. His face went through about six different expressions in the space of a second—relief, panic, guilt, hope, something softer, something harder.
"You're awake," he said.
"I'm awake."
"I was—" He gestured at the stove. "I was trying to—"
"I can see that."
"It's not going well."
"No shit."
He bent down and picked up the spatula. When he straightened, he was closer to her. Close enough that she could smell the smoke on his shirt and the soap from his shower and something underneath that was just him.
"You didn't text me back," he said.
"I was asleep."
"For fourteen hours?"
"I was tired."
"From what?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
He flushed. Actually flushed. Red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. It was so unlike him that she almost laughed.
"Right," he said. "Yeah. Okay. That's fair."
The pan hissed. He turned back to the stove, flipped the pancake, and watched it smoke. Then he sighed and turned off the burner.
"I'm not good at this," he said.
"Making pancakes?"
"Any of it." He set the spatula down. Turned to face her. "I'm not good at waiting. I'm not good at not knowing where I stand. I'm not good at—" He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in a dozen directions. "I showed up at your house at six in the morning because I couldn't sleep and I needed to see you. That's not normal. That's not casual. I know that."
Kenzie crossed her arms. The movement pulled his shirt tight across her chest. His eyes flickered down. Then back up.
"So why did you come?" she asked.
"Because I meant what I said last night. On the phone. About being here. About proving it."
"You could have called."
"I didn't want to call. I wanted to see you."
The fluorescent light flickered. Somewhere in the house, the AC kicked on with a rattle. Kenzie's heart was doing something complicated in her chest—a twist of hope and fear and the desperate urge to protect herself.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"I know."
"You're a massive, oblivious, five-years-too-late idiot."
"I know."
"And you burned my pancakes."
"I know."
She stepped closer. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Close enough to count the freckles on his nose. Close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin.
"Why are you really here, Jason?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at her. That steady, deliberate look. The one that made her feel like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"I'm here," he said slowly, "because I woke up this morning and you weren't there. And I realized that I didn't want to spend another day without you. Not like before. Not pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That I didn't feel anything. That you were just a friend. That I could keep looking at you and not—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Not want you."
The words hung in the air between them.
Kenzie felt them land somewhere deep in her chest. Felt them settle into all the cracked, broken places she'd spent years trying to protect.
"Say it again," she whispered.
"I want you."
"Again."
"I want you, Kenzie. I've been wanting you for years and I was too fucking stupid to see it."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed.
It bubbled up from somewhere unexpected—a bright, sharp sound that cut through all the tension. Jason blinked. His expression shifted from earnest to confused.
"What?" he asked.
"This is insane." She was still laughing. "You're standing in my kitchen, burning pancakes, wearing gym shorts, confessing your feelings at—" She glanced at the microwave clock. "—9:52 in the morning. On a Sunday. It's so—"
"So what?"
"So absurd."
She laughed harder. Bent over, hands on her knees, laughing until her eyes watered. It felt like releasing a valve. Like letting all the pressure of the last twelve hours—the last five years—escape in one long, manic exhale.
When she finally straightened up, Jason was grinning.
"The pancakes really bothered you that much?" he asked.
"Fuck you."
"I'd like to."
Her breath caught.
He was still smiling, but there was something else underneath it now. Something hungrier. His eyes hadn't moved from hers. His hands were loose at his sides, but she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his fingers curled like he was holding himself back.
The pancakes were smoking on the stove behind him. The burner was off, but they were still burning—blackening, sending thin spirals of smoke up toward the ceiling.
Kenzie didn't care.
She dropped to her knees.
Jason's breath hitched. "Kenzie—"
She reached for the waistband of his gym shorts. Yanked them down. They pooled around his ankles, along with his boxers, and then he was in front of her—half-hard and getting harder, cock already leaking at the tip.
Fuck, he's big.
She'd felt him inside her. Knew exactly what he could do. But seeing him like this was different. Taking him in from this angle. He was thick, with a slight curve at the end that made her mouth water.
"Kenzie," he said again. Her name like a warning. Her name like a prayer.
She wrapped her hand around the base of his cock.
He hissed. His hips jerked. She tightened her grip and he went still, breath coming in short, sharp bursts through his nose.
"Kenzie."
"Shut up."
She leaned in. Ran her tongue along the length of him—base to tip, slow and deliberate. He tasted like soap and skin and something muskier underneath. Something that was just him.
Jason groaned. His hand flew to the counter, gripping the edge hard enough that his knuckles went white.
She licked him again. Then again. Then she took just the tip into her mouth.
"Fuck."
The word came out strangled. He was trying so hard to be still, trying so hard to hold back, and she loved it. Loved the way he shuddered when she swirled her tongue around his head. Loved the way his hips twitched when she hollowed her cheeks and sucked.
She took him deeper.
His cock stretched her lips. Filled her mouth. She'd done this before—once, with a guy sophomore year, sloppy and rushed in the back of his car. But this was different. This was Jason. This was the boy she'd spent five years dreaming about.
She looked up.
He was staring down at her. Eyes dark, pupils blown. His jaw was clenched. His chest was heaving. He looked like he was barely holding on.
"What?" she asked. Or tried to—her mouth full of cock.
"Nothing." His voice was strangled. "Fuck. Nothing. Keep—keep doing that."
She pulled back. Let him slide out of her mouth with an obscene pop.
"Doing what?" she teased.
"Kenzie—"
She took him again. Deeper this time. Deeper than she thought she could. Relaxed her throat, breathed through her nose, and swallowed around him.
The sound he made was almost inhuman.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck, Kenzie, that's—"
His hips bucked. She made a startled noise around his cock, but she didn't pull back. Instead, she grabbed his hips and held on. Bobbed her head. Took him as deep as she could, over and over, sloppy and wet, spit dripping down her chin.
His hand found her hair. Tangled in it. Not pushing—not quite—but holding. Guiding.
"I'm not going to last," he gasped. "Fuck, I'm not—you're too—"
She sucked harder. Worked him with her hand and her mouth together. Slid her tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock.
He pulled her off.
Not rough—but firm. Hands under her arms, lifting her up, spinning her around. She landed on the kitchen table with a thud. The weightlifting plate she'd left there clattered to the floor.
"Hey—"
"I need to be inside you," he said.
The words were rough. Desperate. His hands were already on her hips, pulling at the waistband of her shorts. She helped—lifted her hips, kicked them off, let them fall somewhere on the floor.
He yanked his t-shirt over his head. Then he was on her. Mouth crashing against hers, tongue sliding against hers, tasting himself on her lips. His cock pressed against her thigh, hot and hard and leaking.
"Now," she said against his mouth. "Fuck me now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pushed into her.
She cried out—not pain, not quite, but feeling. Fullness. He'd been inside her before. She knew what it felt like. But this angle—bent over the kitchen table, feet dangling off the edge—changed everything. He hit something different. Something deeper.
"Fuck," he groaned.
His hands found her hips. Pulled her back against him. Then he started to move.
Slow at first. Deep, rolling thrusts that made her toes curl. Then faster. Harder. The table rocking beneath them. The chipped plates on the counter shivering with every thrust.
Kenzie grabbed the far edge of the table. Held on.
"Fuck," she said.
"You feel so good," he said. "Fuck, you feel so—"
She was so wet. Slick. Every thrust made an obscene sound—that wet, slapping rhythm that filled the kitchen. She'd never felt this before. This desperate. This hungry.
Him inside her.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The table legs scraped against the linoleum. The smoke alarm started beeping—thin, insistent, triggered by the burnt pancakes. Neither of them cared.
He bent over her back. Pressed his chest against her spine. His mouth found her ear.
"You're so tight," he breathed. "Fuck. So fucking perfect."
She clenched around him. On purpose.
He gasped. His hips stuttered. Then he sped up—pounding into her now, relentless, brutal, exactly what she needed.
"Touch yourself," he said.
She reached down. Found her clit with two fingers. Rubbed in rough, desperate circles.
"Come for me," he said. "Please. Fuck, I want to feel you come."
He didn't have to ask twice.
The orgasm ripped through her. Fast and hard and overwhelming. She cried out—something that wasn't words—and her whole body clenched around him, pulsing, milking.
He made a sound like he'd been punched. Then he was coming too—pulling out at the last second, spilling over her lower back and the curve of her ass.
It kept coming. Rope after rope of hot, thick come. She felt it splash across her skin. Felt him shudder and gasp behind her.
Then silence.
Just breathing. Both of them, ragged and uneven. The smoke alarm still beeping in the background.
"Shit," Jason said. "The pancakes."
Kenzie laughed.
It was a weak sound—breathless, spent. But it was real.
"Fuck the pancakes," she said.
He pulled away. She heard him grab something—a paper towel, probably—and then he was cleaning her up. Gentle. Careful. Like she was something precious.
"I love you," he said.
She went still.
"What?"
He stepped back. She turned around. He was standing there, paper towel in hand, looking at her with that same steady, deliberate expression.
"I love you," he said again.
The words hung in the air.
Kenzie's throat closed up. Her heart was doing something complicated. Something that felt a lot like breaking.
"You can't just—" She swallowed. "You can't just say that after—"
"After what? After I fucked you on your kitchen table? After you sucked my cock so good I saw stars?"
She flinched at the bluntness. But he didn't stop.
"I know I'm late. I know I made you wait. I know you've spent years watching me be with other people and pretending it didn't matter." He stepped closer. His hand found her cheek. "But I'm here now. And I love you. And I'm not going to pretend anymore."
She didn't know what to say.
So she said nothing.
He kissed her forehead. Then he pulled up his shorts, picked up his t-shirt, and walked over to the stove.
The pancakes were ruined. Black discs fused to the pan. He scraped them out and dumped them in the trash.
"We're going to need to order food," he said.
Kenzie sat on the table. Still shirtless. Still tasting him on her lips.
"I love you too," she said.
He turned around.
"What?"
"I love you too. I've loved you for five years. And I'm not going to pretend anymore either."
The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise.
He crossed the room in three steps.
Then he was kissing her. Tender this time. Soft. Like they had all the time in the world.
"You want breakfast?" he asked when he pulled back.
"I want pancakes."
"I burned them."
"Then make me new ones."
He laughed. Kissed her again.
"I'll try," he said.
"And don't burn them this time."
"I make no promises."
She smiled. And for the first time in five years, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.
The pancakes were still awful.
He'd tried—really tried—but something had gone wrong with the batter. Too much water. Not enough flour. The result was a weird, rubbery texture that made Kenzie laugh every time she tried to chew.
"You're supposed to flip them when they bubble," she said.
"They did bubble."
"Those were burnt bubbles."
"Is that a thing? Burnt bubbles?"
"I'm pretty sure it's a thing."
They were in her bed. Surrounded by pillows. The pan of ruined pancakes on the nightstand, next to the bottle of syrup and two forks. Jason had a plate balanced on his chest. Kenzie was curled against his side, stealing bites off his fork.
"Your bed's too small," he said.
"Your bed's too big."
"Maybe we should trade."
She snorted. "I don't think either of us is moving out anytime soon."
"True." He stabbed another piece of pancake. Chewed. Made a face. "These are really bad."
"Terrible."
"Worst pancakes I've ever made."
"The bar is on the floor."
"Fair."
They ate in comfortable silence. The AC hummed. Sunlight poured through the blinds, painting stripes across the comforter. Kenzie's phone buzzed somewhere on the floor—probably her mom, checking in—but she didn't reach for it.
She was too comfortable.
Jason's arm was wrapped around her shoulders. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare arm. Every so often he'd drop a kiss on the top of her head. Like he couldn't help himself.
"You know this is weird, right?" she said.
"What is?"
"Everything. Twenty-four hours ago we were just friends. Now you're naked in my bed eating burnt pancakes."
"We're not naked."
"Speak for yourself."
He laughed. The vibration rumbled through his chest and into hers.
"It's not weird," he said. "It's just—new."
"New."
"Yeah. Like a new exercise. Or a new position. You have to adjust. Figure out how it works."
"That's very athletic of you."
"Thank you."
She elbowed him. He grunted.
"Look," he said. "I know this isn't going to be easy. I know we have a lot to figure out. But I meant what I said. I'm not going anywhere."
She tilted her head back. Looked at him.
"What does that even mean?" she asked. "Not going anywhere. We're eighteen. We're graduating in a year. I'm going to State on a softball scholarship. You're—"
"I don't know what I'm doing yet."
"Right. But you're going somewhere. We both are."
"So?"
"So what happens when I'm in Austin and you're—wherever? What happens then?"
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he set the plate aside. Turned toward her. Cupped her face in his hands.
"Then I'll figure it out," he said. "I'll visit. I'll call. I'll do whatever it takes. Because you're not just some girl, Kenzie. You're not just a hookup. You're—"
He stopped.
"What?" she asked.
"You're my person. You've always been my person. I was just too stupid to know it."
Her eyes burned. She blinked fast.
"Don't cry," he said.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"Shut up."
He kissed her. Soft. Sweet.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
They stayed like that for a long time. Wrapped up in each other. The pancakes got cold. The sun climbed higher. Somewhere outside, someone was playing music—faint, tinny, coming through an open window.
Kenzie closed her eyes.
For the first time in five years, she wasn't waiting for anything.
She was exactly where she wanted to be.
Later—hours later, when the sun had moved and the pancakes were a distant memory—Jason's phone buzzed.
He reached for it. Frowned at the screen.
"Shit," he said.
"What?"
"It's my mom. She's back from Dallas. Wants to know where I am."
Kenzie propped herself on her elbow. "What are you going to tell her?"
He looked at her. Then at the phone. Then back at her.
"The truth," he said.
"The whole truth?"
"Maybe not the whole truth." He smirked. "I'll tell her I stayed at a friend's."
"A friend?"
"I'll tell her I stayed at my girlfriend's."
The word landed between them. Girlfriend.
Kenzie's stomach flipped.
"Girlfriend?" she repeated.
"Yeah." He typed something on his phone. Hit send. Then he dropped the phone and rolled toward her, pinning her to the mattress. "Unless you have a problem with that."
She pretended to think about it.
"Does this mean I have to stop making fun of your terrible pancake skills?"
"No. That's part of the deal."
"And I still get to kick your ass in weightlifting?"
"We'll see."
"And I—"
He kissed her.
She stopped talking.
When he pulled back, he was smiling.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
He kissed her again. Deeper this time. Hungrier.
And then he slid his hand between her thighs.
The sun was still shining. The AC was still humming. Somewhere, the pancakes were still sitting on the nightstand, cold and rubbery and absolutely terrible.
Neither of them noticed.
They were too busy noticing each other.