Chapter 11: Chapter 11
The first thing Jordan noticed when he woke up was the cold.
Not the kind of cold that crept in through shitty dorm windows and settled into your bones while you slept. Not the kind that made you burrow deeper under blankets and curse the university's ancient heating system.
This was different.
This was the cold of a house that hadn't been lived in for months. The cold of empty rooms and bare floors and walls that didn't know what warmth felt like anymore. The cold of a furnace that rattled and groaned but didn't seem to actually do anything.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was unfamiliar. Cracked plaster. A water stain shaped like Wisconsin. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to remember where he was, before the weight of Maria's leg across his thighs brought everything back.
Green Bay.
The house.
Home.
He turned his head. Maria was still asleep, her face pressed into the bare mattress, her hair a dark tangle spread across the fabric. She was shivering. Just slightly. Just enough that he could feel it through the points where their bodies touched.
He pulled the quilt higher. The one from the motel. The one they'd stolen.
Wait.
They hadn't stolen it. They'd just... forgotten to leave it behind. It was folded in the backseat when they packed the car. Maria had looked at it, looked at him, and shrugged.
"Finders keepers," she'd said.
He hadn't argued.
Now he was grateful. The quilt was the only thing keeping them from freezing to death in their own bedroom.
Jordan shifted. The mattress creaked. Maria stirred.
"Time?" she mumbled.
"Don't know."
"Check."
He reached for his phone on the floor. The screen was cracked—had been since last semester—but it still worked. Barely.
"Seven-forty."
"Fuck." She rolled over, pulling the quilt with her. "Too early."
"We have shit to do."
"Fuck the shit."
"Landlord wants the lease signed by noon."
She groaned. Opened one eye. Looked at him.
"I hate you."
"You love me."
"Both things can be true."
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. She smelled like stale coffee and motel soap and something underneath that was just her. Just Maria. He breathed her in and felt something settle in his chest.
"Come on," he said. "I'll make coffee."
"We don't have a coffee maker."
"We have a gas station two blocks down."
"We don't have a car."
"We have legs."
She stared at him. The look she gave him was somewhere between disdain and genuine hatred.
"I want a divorce."
"We're not married."
"Then I want a breakup."
"Too late." He stood up, the cold hitting him like a wall. "You're stuck with me."
---
The gas station was called Kwik Trip, which felt like a personal attack on everything Jordan had ever believed about Wisconsin. Back in Minnesota, it was Kwik Trip too, but the name had always felt like a Midwest thing, a shared joke between states that hated each other for six days a week and then pretended to get along on the seventh.
But here, standing in the fluorescent glow of a Kwik Trip that smelled like burnt coffee and floor cleaner, it felt different. More real. More permanent.
Maria was still in the car—he'd left her there with the heat running, the engine idling while he ran inside. She'd refused to get out. Said her legs didn't work yet. Said she needed at least three more hours of sleep before she could function as a human being.
He'd called her a dramatic asshole.
She'd flipped him off.
Now he was standing in line with two cups of coffee and a bag of day-old donuts, watching a guy in a Packers hoodie argue with the cashier about lottery tickets.
"I'm telling you, the machine's rigged," the guy said.
"Sir, it's a scratch-off."
"Rigged."
The cashier, a woman in her fifties with hair the color of steel wool, didn't blink. "That'll be twelve dollars."
The guy paid. Grabbed his tickets. Walked out.
Jordan stepped up to the counter.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." The cashier looked at him. Looked at the donuts. "You new here?"
"That obvious?"
"Nobody buys day-old donuts unless they're desperate." She rang him up. "Where you from?"
"Minnesota."
"Vikings fan?"
"Packers."
She paused. Looked at him again. This time with something that might have been respect.
"Good answer."
---
Maria was asleep when he got back.
Head against the window. Mouth slightly open. The quilt wrapped around her shoulders like a cocoon. He didn't wake her. Just set the coffee in the cup holder and drove.
The streets of Green Bay were quiet. Small. The kind of quiet that felt foreign after two years of Minneapolis. No traffic. No honking. No students stumbling home drunk at all hours.
Just houses. Trees. A dog walker who waved at him like he was a neighbor.
He waved back.
Weird.
The landlord's office was in a strip mall next to a nail salon and a place that sold vacuum cleaners. The sign on the door said PROPERTY MANAGEMENT in peeling gold letters. Jordan parked, killed the engine, and reached over to shake Maria's shoulder.
"Hey."
She groaned.
"We're here."
She opened her eyes. Blinked. Looked around.
"This is it?"
"This is it."
"It looks like a place where dreams go to die."
"Sign the lease and we can leave."
She sighed. Rubbed her face. Grabbed her coffee—now lukewarm—and chugged half of it in one go.
"Okay," she said. "Let's do this."
---
The landlord's name was Gary.
He was sixty-something and smelled like Old Spice and cigarettes. His office was cluttered with papers and model airplanes and a calendar from 2019 that he hadn't bothered to update. He shook Jordan's hand with a grip that was too firm, like he was trying to prove something.
"You the Prices?"
"We're not—"
"Doesn't matter." He dropped into a chair that groaned under his weight. "Sit down."
They sat.
The lease was six pages of fine print. Jordan read every word. Maria read over his shoulder, occasionally pointing at clauses she didn't like. Gary watched them with the patience of a man who'd seen a thousand nervous renters and had stopped caring around number two hundred.
"Questions?" he said when they finished.
"The furnace doesn't work," Jordan said.
"It works."
"It rattles."
"It's old."
"It's cold."
Gary shrugged. "Put on a sweater."
Maria leaned forward. "The agreement says repairs are covered by the property management."
"The agreement says I'll fix things that are broken. The furnace isn't broken. It's just old."
"It's not heating the house."
"Then get a space heater."
Maria opened her mouth. Jordan put a hand on her knee.
"We'll sign," he said.
Gary smiled. It was not a nice smile.
---
Outside, Maria was fuming.
"Space heater," she said. "Space heater. I'll show him a fucking space heater."
"Maria—"
"I'm gonna shove a space heater so far up his—"
"Maria."
She stopped. Looked at him.
"We have a house," he said. "A real house. With a lease and everything. We did it."
She stared at him for a moment. Then her shoulders dropped. Then she laughed.
"We did," she said.
"Fuck Gary."
"Fuck Gary."
---
The rest of the day was a blur of unpacking.
Box by box. Room by room. Jordan found the sheets and made the bed. Maria found the kitchen stuff and arranged it in cabinets. They argued about where the pots should go. They argued about where the couch should go. They argued about whether the Packers pennant should go above the TV or by the front door.
"Above the TV," Jordan said.
"By the door," Maria said.
"Above the TV."
"By the door."
They compromised. It went above the TV.
The sun moved across the sky. The boxes emptied. The rooms filled. By evening, the living room looked less like a storage unit and more like a place where people could live.
Jordan stood in the middle of it, surveying his work.
The couch. The TV. The pennant. The dead maple tree visible through the window. The faint smell of cardboard still hanging in the air.
It wasn't much.
But it was theirs.
Maria appeared in the doorway. She had a box in her hands. The one marked US.
"I found this," she said.
"I thought you unpacked that."
"I did. Just the outside stuff." She held it up. "The rest is still in here."
He looked at her. "You haven't opened it?"
"Not yet." She walked over and set it on the coffee table. "I wanted to wait."
"For what?"
"For you."
He sat down on the couch. She sat next to him. The box was small—about the size of a shoebox—and light. The word US was written on the top in Maria's handwriting, blocky and bold.
"What's in it?" he said.
"Open it and see."
He lifted the lid.
The first thing he saw was a photo. Them, at a tailgate, sophomore year. Maria had cheese on her head and mustard on her chin. Jordan was laughing, eyes closed, caught mid-moment. A stranger had taken it. Maria had printed it. He'd never seen it before.
"This is—"
"Keep going."
He set the photo aside. Underneath was a stack of ticket stubs. Every game they'd ever watched together. Every Sunday. Every Monday night. Every playoff run. The stubs were worn and faded, some of them barely legible.
"You kept these?"
"I keep everything."
He laughed. His throat was tight.
Next was a napkin. A grease-stained, crumpled napkin from some bar they'd gone to. On it, in his handwriting, was a play diagram. Some bullshit play he'd drawn up after too many beers, arguing that the Packers should run a trick play against the Bears.
"You kept this?"
"I told you. I keep everything."
He looked at her. She was watching him. Waiting.
"You're such a sap," he said.
"I know."
"It's disgusting."
"I know."
He kissed her.
Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't.
When he pulled back, she was smiling.
"Keep going," she said.
He reached into the box. His fingers found something metal.
A key.
Small. Bright. Familiar.
"What's this?"
"The key to my dorm room." She shrugged. "From freshman year. I never gave it back."
"You've been carrying this around for two years?"
"I told you—"
"I know. You keep everything."
She leaned into him. "I kept you."
He put the key back in the box. Closed the lid.
"Come here," he said.
She came.
---
They made it to the bedroom eventually.
Not to sleep.
Jordan pushed the bedroom door open with his foot, his hands too busy holding Maria's waist, her lips too busy navigating the geography of his throat. She was working the buttons of his jeans before he'd even gotten the door closed.
"Impatient," he said.
"I'm not impatient. I've been thinking about this all day."
"While we were signing the lease?"
"While Gary was talking about the furnace."
"Jesus."
"If you say that name in this room, I'm leaving."
He laughed. It turned into a groan when her hand found his cock.
She was good at this. Good at unbuttoning. Good at pulling down his jeans. Good at grabbing him by the shaft, stroking up and down with a firm, dry grip that made his knees weak.
"Why do you always do that?" he said.
"Do what?"
"Start without me."
"Someone has to take charge."
She knelt in front of him. His cock was hard now, thick and dripping, and she looked at it like it was her favorite meal.
"Maria—"
"Shut up."
She took him in her mouth.
Hot. Wet. Deep. Her tongue pressed against the underside, her lips sealed around the shaft, and he felt the suction all the way to his toes. She bobbed her head, slow at first, then faster, her hand wrapping around the base where her mouth couldn't reach.
"Fuck," he breathed.
She looked up at him without stopping.
"Do you like that?"
"Oh god—"
She took him deeper. He hit the back of her throat. Gagged. Pulled back. Spit.
She wiped her chin with the back of her hand.
"I want you to fuck me," she said.
"Where?"
"The mattress. We don't have sheets."
"Rough?"
"Always."
He pulled her to her feet. Kissed her. Tasted himself on her tongue. Then he yanked her shirt over her head. Her bra. Her jeans. By the time she was naked, his own clothes were somewhere on the floor and he couldn't remember taking them off.
She crawled up onto the bare mattress.
The quilt from the motel was still tangled at the foot of the bed. She grabbed it and pulled it under her, a makeshift nest.
"Come here," she said.
He did.
He climbed onto the mattress. Settled between her thighs. Looked down at her.
This was usually the part where he'd pause. Check in. Make sure.
Not tonight.
Tonight she reached down, grabbed his cock, and guided him inside her.
She was tight. Wet. So fucking warm. The bare skin of her cunt gripped him like a fist and he had to stop, had to breathe, had to close his eyes and count to five to stop himself from coming right there.
"Don't stop," she said.
"I'm not stopping."
"Move."
He moved.
The mattress creaked. The frame rattled. His hips found a rhythm—deep and slow and hard—and she arched her back, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her mouth open in a silent moan.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
He fucked her like he was trying to leave marks. Like he was trying to carve his name into her bones. He grabbed her hips and pulled her onto him, meeting every thrust, and she scratched her nails down his back until he felt the sting and didn't care.
"I'm gonna come," she said.
"Don't."
"What?"
"Not yet." He stopped. Buried inside her. Leaned down and whispered in her ear. "I want to taste you first."
"Jordan—"
He pulled out. She whimpered. He kissed down her stomach. Her thighs. Spread her legs wide and put his mouth on her cunt.
She tasted like salt and sweat and something darker. He licked up the seam of her, slow, deliberate. Her clit was swollen, sensitive, and he circled it with his tongue, pressure soft, then hard.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He slid two fingers inside her. Crooked them. Found the spot that made her whole body jerk.
"Right there—"
He kept going. Licking. Finger-fucking. Listening to her breath come in short, sharp bursts. She grabbed his hair. Pulled. Her hips bucked against his face and he didn't stop, didn't relent, didn't give her a chance to breathe.
She came with a sound that was half-scream, half-gasp. Her thighs clamped around his ears. Her fingers twisted in his hair. He kept lapping at her through it, drawing it out, until she pushed his head away, oversensitive and trembling.
"Stop," she panted. "Stop, stop—"
He sat up. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Looked at her.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"Shut up."
"You're beautiful when you come."
She pulled him down. Kissed him. Tasted herself on his lips.
Then she grabbed his cock and guided him back inside her.
He didn't need any more direction.
He fucked her hard. Fast. The headboard—the one they'd bought for fifty bucks on Facebook Marketplace—slammed against the wall. The mattress bounced. The quilt tangled around their legs.
She reached back and grabbed the headboard to anchor herself.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you fucking stop."
"I'm not gonna last."
"I don't care. Don't stop."
He didn't.
He drove into her until his vision blurred and his lungs burned. Until her second orgasm ripped through her and she cried out his name like it was a prayer. Until his own release slammed into him and he came—hard, pulsing, deep—inside her.
He stopped moving. Collapsed on top of her. Buried his face in her hair.
Neither of them spoke.
The house was quiet. The furnace rattled. Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
Maria laughed first.
"Welcome home," she said.
He laughed. His whole body shook with it.
"Home," he said.
---
They stayed like that for a while.
Then they showered. The hot water was a miracle. They stood under the stream, not saying anything, just existing. Her back against his chest. His arms around her waist. The water washing away the sweat, the exhaustion, the last five hours of driving and the last two weeks of waiting.
After, they wrapped themselves in towels—the only ones they could find, still cold from the box—and went back to the bedroom.
The bed was a mess. The quilt was tangled. The sheets were somewhere in the hall. But neither of them cared.
They lay down. Pulled the quilt over themselves. Turned toward each other.
"I can't believe we live here," Maria said.
"I can't believe I fucked you in our own house."
"Our own house." She smiled. "That's weird to say."
"Good weird?"
"Best weird."
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her lips.
"Goodnight, Maria."
"Goodnight, Jordan."
The house settled around them. The furnace rattled. The wind pushed against the windows.
And somewhere in Green Bay, Wisconsin, two people who'd run out of gas and still managed to get exactly where they needed to be fell asleep in each other's arms.
For the first time in their own bed.
In their own home.
And outside, the maple tree wasn't dead.
Just dormant.
Waiting for spring.