Chapter 13: Breakfast Tension
The grey light of dawn was creeping around the edges of Lexi’s blinds when she slipped out from under Ace’s arm. He slept deeply, one arm thrown over the space where she’d been, his breathing a steady rhythm in the quiet room. The scent of him—leather, motor oil, and sex—was on her skin, in her sheets. It felt more like a claim than any mark.
She dressed silently in the semi-darkness, her body humming with a strange, sore awareness. Pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie, she paused at the door, looking back at the tangled sheets and the shape of him. A part of her wanted to crawl back in, to bury herself in that heat and forget the world outside her bedroom door. The smarter part knew the world was already knocking.
The house was still. Her father’s door was shut. Dede’s too, presumably. The hallway felt like a minefield.
She padded downstairs, hoping for the solace of an empty kitchen, for a few minutes to make coffee and let the reality of the night solidify in her mind before she had to talk about it. Before she had to lie about it.
The smell hit her first. Not coffee. Vanilla and frying butter. Pancakes.
Lexi froze in the kitchen doorway.
Dede stood at the stove, her back to the room. She wore tight, dusty-rose yoga pants and a thin white tank top, no bra. Her strawberry-blond curls were piled in a messy, artful bun. She hummed softly as she flipped a golden pancake with a deft wrist.This was wrong. All of it was wrong. The domestic scene, the humming, the way Dede’s hips swayed slightly to a song only she could hear. She was a fixture. A permanent, morning-after fixture.
Dede turned, sensing her. A wide, warm smile spread across her face. “Lexi! Good morning, sweetheart. Sleep well?” Her voice was syrup-smooth. She gestured to the island with her spatula.“Sit, sit. I’m making a whole stack. Blueberry, your dad’s favorite.”
Lexi just stared, her mind blank.Sweetheart.
Before she could formulate a response—a grunt, a thanks, a scream—the heavy tread of her father’s footsteps sounded on the stairs. He entered the kitchen, already dressed in khakis and a crisp button-down. His eyes went straight to Dede, tracking the swing of her hips as she bent to retrieve a plate from the lower cabinet. A soft, private smile touched his lips, the kind Lexi hadn’t seen since before the divorce.
Then he saw Lexi. The smile faltered, replaced by a guarded, paternal concern. The memory of last night’s hallway confrontation passed between them, a silent, uncomfortable current.
Dede glided over, sliding a plate stacked with pancakes in front of Lexi. “Maple syrup’s right there, honey.” She touched David’s arm as she passed him, a casual, proprietary gesture, before returning to the stove.
David cleared his throat, pulling out a stool beside Lexi. He didn’t sit, just leaned against it, his big hands gripping the back. “Lex… about last night.” He stopped, his gaze dropping to the scarred tabletop. He looked tired, older than his years. “I am sorry that you saw that. And that you had to… find out about us two that way. It was… disrespectful. To you. To this house.”
Lexi poked at a plump blueberry with her fork. The apology felt huge and insufficient all at once. It acknowledged the shock, but not the shift. Not the woman now cooking in their kitchen.
“It’s fine,” she murmured, the lie automatic.
“It’s not.” He sighed, rubbing his beard. “We should have talked to you. I should have talked to you. Before it… progressed.” His eyes flickered to Dede, who was watching them in the reflective surface of the microwave door, pretending not to listen. “Things with Dede… they’re serious.”
The word landed like a stone in Lexi’s gut.Serious.
“Okay,” she said, because there was nothing else to say.
“I’ve… I called my lawyer yesterday. To finalize the divorce papers. From your mom.” He said it quietly, as if the words themselves might shatter. “It’s time. To close that chapter.”
Lexi felt a pang for him, sharp and sudden. She knew what his wife’s betrayal had done to him. She saw the ghost of it in his eyes every day. But the finality of it, announced over pancakes made by another woman, made her feel unmoored. The cropped corner of the old family photo on the wall seemed to pulse in her peripheral vision.
“I think that’s good, Dad,” she managed, meaning it. He deserved peace.
Dede chose that moment to bring over two more plates, setting one in front of David and taking the seat opposite Lexi with her own. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing David’s hand. “It’s a brave step, David. A healthy one.” She turned her sunny attention to Lexi. “We’ll have to have a girls’ day soon, Lexi. Get our nails done. I’d love to get to know you better.”
The offer was so perfectly tuned, so wifely, that it made Lexi’s skin crawl. She forced a tight smile. “Yeah. Maybe.”
The rest of the breakfast was a minefield of small talk. Dede asked polite questions about school. David talked about a book deadline. Lexi answered in monosyllables, the memories of Ace’s hands, his mouth, the rough sound of his voice in her ear, playing on a loop that drowned them out. She could still feel the sticky, cooling evidence of him between her thighs, hidden under her sweatpants.
She was excusing herself, plate still half-full, when her phone buzzed in her hoodie pocket. A text. Her heart vaulted into her throat.
Ace (7:14 AM): You left.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then:
Ace (7:15 AM): Your dad’s car is still here. I’m in the Mustang down the block.Come out.
Her fingers trembled as she typed a reply, hiding the screen under the table.
Lexi (7:16 AM): Can’t.Kitchen hostage. Pancake interrogation.
The three dots appeared and held. Her whole body leaned into the wait.
Ace (7:17 AM): 5 minutes. Or I ring the doorbell.
A thrill, illicit and electric, shot through her. She stood up abruptly, her stool scraping. “I’m gonna go shower. Thanks for breakfast, Dede.”
“Of course, sweetie!” Dede chirped, already collecting plates. David gave her a nod, his eyes softer now, less burdened. He looked… content. With Dede’s hand on his shoulder.
Lexi took the stairs two at a time. In her room, the bed was empty, neatly made. Ace had stripped it, leaving the sheets in a heap by the door. A gesture so utilitarian it felt intensely intimate. He’d erased the evidence, but the room still held him.
She showered in a scalding rush, scrubbing at the smell of him even as part of her mourned its loss. She dressed in clean jeans and a sweater, threw her damp hair into a ponytail, and slung her backpack over her shoulder.
“Going to the library!” she called out, not stopping as she passed the kitchen doorway.
“On a Saturday?” David asked.
“Big history project,” she lied, already opening the front door.
“Be back by—”
The door clicked shut behind her.
The morning air was crisp, cutting through the last of her drowsiness. She spotted the black Mustang immediately, parked under a skeletal oak three houses down. The driver’s window was down, his arm resting on the frame.
She climbed into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of old leather and him enveloping her. He didn’t look at her, just stared straight ahead, his jaw tight. He looked exhausted, shadows under those piercing blue eyes.
He put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb, silence thick between them for two blocks.
“You made the bed,” she finally said.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because your dad would’ve killed me if he saw it like that. And then he’d have asked you questions you shouldn’t have to answer.” His voice was flat. “He’s home. With her.”
“She made pancakes.”
Ace let out a short, humorless laugh. “Of course she did.”
He drove aimlessly, ending up at the abandoned rail yard on the edge of town. He killed the engine. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant cry of crows.
“Last night can’t happen again,” he said, still looking out at the rusted tracks.
The words were a physical blow. “Why?”
Finally, he turned to her. The intensity in his gaze was terrifying. “Because I lost control. I came on you, Lexi.In your bed. What if she’d walked in this morning? What if your dad had?” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m a fucking animal. I told you I would wreck you.”
“You didn’t wreck me,” she whispered fiercely. “I wanted it. All of it.”
“That’s the problem!” He slammed his palm against the steering wheel, making her jump. “You shouldn’t want this. You should want some college fuckboy with a trust fund and a clean record. Not a guy who gets calls from his crying baby brother because his mom’s new boyfriend is yelling again. Not a guy who has to meet with a fucking parole officer because his stepdad pressed charges. That’s my life. It’s a messy, violent, depressing hole. And I am obsessed with dragging you into it.”
The raw confession hung in the air. Obsessed. The word should have scared her. It didn’t. It lit a tiny, defiant flame in her chest.
“So what’s your solution?” she asked, her voice quiet. “You drop me off and we pretend none of it happened? You ignore me at school?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.”
She reached over, her fingers gently turning his face toward her. He flinched at her touch but didn’t pull away. “You kissed me in a crowded hallway. You came to my window.You stayed. You don’t get to un-stay, Ace. Not now.”
His eyes searched hers, the conflict in them a raging storm. He was fighting it, fighting them, with everything he had. But he was losing, and they both knew it.
But he was losing, and they both knew it.
The fight drained from his eyes, leaving only a raw, weary hunger. Lexi watched his throat work as he swallowed, the pulse hammering in the hollow of his neck. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, the scrape of stubble against her skin a tangible anchor.
He muttered something that sounded like fuck it, the words dissolving into the charged air between them. Then his hand came up, fingers tangling in the hair at the base of her ponytail. He didn’t pull her close gently.He dragged her.
The kiss wasn’t soft. It was a collision. A release of pent-up everything—frustration, fear, want. His mouth was hot and demanding, tasting of cheap coffee and a uniquely sharp, metallic desperation. It was nothing like the hungry, exploring kisses from her bed.
This was a surrender.A confession.
Lexi met him with equal force, her hands fisting in the soft cotton of his shirt. She could feel the hard wall of his chest, the rapid thudding of his heart beneath her palms. A low sound vibrated from his throat into hers, part groan, part defeat.
When he finally broke away, they were both breathless. He rested his forehead against hers, their ragged pants mingling in the cold car. “See?” he whispered, his voice ruined. “I can’t even do the right thing when I’m looking right at it.”
“This is the right thing,” she breathed back.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper. It was a kiss that mapped a new territory of resignation and need. His tongue swept against hers, a tacit admission that the battle was over. His other hand slid from the steering wheel to her thigh, his grip possessive, almost painful.
“My place,” he said against her mouth. It wasn’t a question.
She just nodded, her forehead still pressed to his. He started the car, the engine’s roar shattering the quiet. He drove with a focused recklessness, one hand on the wheel, the other anchored on her leg as if she might vanish.
The little house on the edge of town looked even smaller in the grey daylight, peeling paint and overgrown hedges. He led her inside, not letting go of her hand. The front room was spare, clean in a harsh, utilitarian way. A battered couch, a TV, no pictures on the walls.
The only sign of life was a pile of motocross magazines and a single, pristine-looking math textbook on the coffee table.
“My brother’s,” he said, following her gaze. “He comes here after school sometimes. To study.” He said it like a challenge, daring her to pity him, to see only the lack.
“It’s quiet,” she said simply.
That seemed to disarm him. He exhaled, a long, slow release. Then he turned and pinned her against the closed front door. The kiss here was different again.Slower, more deliberate. It was a reclaiming. His hands slid under her sweater, his palms rough and warm against the skin of her waist.
He walked her backward through the house, a clumsy, connected shuffle, never breaking the kiss. They reached a doorway. His bedroom. It was a mirror of the front room—a bed with a plain grey comforter, a dresser, a window looking out on a neglected backyard.
The last of his hesitation seemed to vaporize here, in his own space. There was a frantic edge to his movements now. He peeled her sweater over her head, his own shirt following. The cool air raised goosebumps on her skin, immediately replaced by the heat of his.
He backed her toward the bed, his eyes dark, drinking her in. “You’re sure?” The question was a gravelly whisper, a final offering of an out.
Lexi answered by reaching for the button of his jeans. Her fingers fumbled, clumsy. He covered her hand with his, stilling her. He did it himself, shoving his jeans and boxers down in one impatient movement.
Then his hands were on the waistband of her jeans, popping the button, dragging them and her panties down her legs. She kicked them away, standing naked before him except for her socks. His gaze felt like a physical touch, scorching and reverent all at once.
He lifted her then, his hands under her thighs, and deposited her in the center of the bed. He followed her down, his body covering hers, the full, shocking length of him settling heavily between her legs. The feel of him, skin to skin, so hard and so hot, stole the air from her lungs.
He propped himself up on his elbows, looking down at her. “I’ll go slow,” he said, but it sounded like a promise he was making to himself, a mantra.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Not for me.”
He closed his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw. When he opened them, the blue was almost black. He reached between them, his hand finding her, already slick for him. He tested her with his fingers, one, then two, stretching her carefully, his breath hot against her neck.
“Christ, Lexi,” he whispered, the words ragged.
He positioned himself, the broad head of him nudging against her entrance. The pressure was immense, a blunt, impossible feeling. She gasped, her body instinctively tensing.
He stilled instantly. “Look at me.”
She forced her eyes open, locking onto his. The world narrowed to his face, to the strain and the unwavering focus she found there.
“Breathe out,” he commanded softly.
She exhaled, and he pushed forward, just an inch. The stretch was intense, a burning fullness that made her fingers dig into his shoulders. He held there, letting her adjust, sweat beading on his temple.
“Again,” he murmured, his voice thick.
Another exhale.Another relentless, gradual invasion. He filled her completely, a deep, shocking presence that bordered on pain. She felt impossibly full, stretched to her limit. A tiny, broken sound escaped her.
He dropped his forehead to hers, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding still. “Okay?” he breathed, the word strained.
She nodded, unable to speak. It was a lot. It was everything.
He began to move, a shallow, careful withdrawal followed by a slow, deeper thrust. The sharp edge of pain began to melt, transforming into a deep, radiating pressure. A feeling of fullness that tipped into something else. He set a deliberate, measured rhythm, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You’re so tight,” he choked out, his control visibly fraying. “So fucking perfect.”
With each stroke, the sensation morphed, the initial shock giving way to a deeper, gathering heat. She moved tentatively with him, her hips meeting his thrusts. A gasp hitched in her throat, this one not from pain.
He saw it. A fierce, triumphant light flared in his eyes. His rhythm lost its rigid control, becoming more urgent. The bed frame began a soft, rhythmic knock against the wall. Each drive went deeper, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur.
Her legs came up, wrapping around his waist, pulling him in even further. The change in angle made him groan, a raw, unfiltered sound. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, his breath scalding her skin.
“That’s it,” he rasped against her throat. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The coil in her belly, the one he’d wound so expertly the night before, began to tighten again. It was different this time—deeper, more profound, woven through with a piercing emotional ache that amplified every physical sensation. Her cries became sharp, pleading sounds she didn’t recognize.
He drove into her, harder, faster, each stroke pushing her higher. His fingers found her clit, rubbing in frantic, perfect circles. The dual sensations fused, overwhelming her.
“Ace, I’m—“
“Come,” he growled, the word a direct order. “Now.”
It shattered her. The climax ripped through her with a violence that arched her back off the bed, a silent scream forming on her lips. She pulsed around him, a frantic, milking rhythm that tore a ragged shout from his throat.
His thrusts became chaotic, pounding into her through the waves of her own pleasure. Three more brutal drives and he stiffened, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his chest as he emptied himself inside her, his body shuddering with the force of it.
He collapsed, his full weight crushing her into the mattress for a moment before he caught himself on his elbows. They lay like that, fused together, soaked in sweat, the only sound their ragged, struggling breaths. He was still inside her, softening slowly, a wet, intimate claim.
Slowly, carefully, he rolled to the side, pulling her with him so she was tucked against his chest. His arm was a heavy band across her back, his heart a frantic drum under her ear.
He didn’t speak. His fingers traced slow, absent patterns on her shoulder. The silence stretched, thick with everything they hadn’t said. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. The ordinary sound felt like an intrusion from another planet.
His phone, buzzing on the floor where his jeans lay in a heap, was a much closer invasion.
The vibration was a harsh, insistent rattle against the hardwood. Ace went perfectly still. The languid tracing on her shoulder stopped. Lexi could feel the dread enter his body before he even moved, a tensing of every muscle.
“Shit,” he whispered.
He untangled himself from her, the loss of his warmth immediate and shocking. He swung his legs off the bed, grabbed his jeans, and fumbled the phone from the pocket. The screen lit up his face, pale in the dim room. He stared at it, his expression closing down, turning to stone.
He swiped to answer, putting it to his ear. “Ty? What’s wrong?”
The voice on the other end was too shrill, too frantic to make out words, but the panic was a tangible thing, leaking into the room. Ace stood up, turning his naked back to her. His shoulders were rigid lines.
“Okay. Okay, buddy, breathe. Just breathe.” His voice was low, controlled, a stark contrast to the tremor she could see in his hand. “Is she there? Is she conscious?”
Lexi pulled the grey comforter up to her chin, a cold dread seeping into her own bones. She watched the sinewy muscles in his back flex as he clenched his free hand into a fist.
“Listen to me. You go to your room. You lock the door. Do not come out, you hear me? No matter what he says.” A pause. The voice on the phone rose in a desperate whine. “I don’t care if Mom tells you to. You lock the damn door, Tyson. I’m coming now.”
He ended the call and stood for a second, head bowed, phone clenched in his hand. The peaceful, sated man from moments ago was gone. In his place was the older brother, the protector, carved from something harder and colder.He turned. His eyes met hers, but they were distant, already miles away in a different, darker house. “I have to go.” The words were flat, final.
He began dressing with a grim, mechanical efficiency, not looking at her. The intimacy of the last hour was gone, snapped off like a light.
“Is he okay?” Lexi asked, her own voice small.
“No,” Ace said, yanking his t-shirt over his head. He found her clothes in a heap on the floor and handed them to her, his movements hurried, impersonal.“Get dressed. I’ll drop you at the corner of your street.”
There was no discussion. No softness. The Mustang’s engine growled to life a minute later, a sound of pure frustration. He drove faster than before, his knuckles white on the wheel. The space between them in the car was no longer charged with desire, but with a heavy, helpless urgency.
He stopped at the intersection before her house, not even pulling to the curb. The car idled roughly.
“Ace—” she started.
“I’ll text you,” he cut her off, his gaze fixed straight ahead. It wasn’t a promise. It was a dismissal.
She got out, the door closing with a solid thunk that felt terribly final. The Mustang peeled away from the curb, leaving her standing on the sidewalk with the smell of him on her skin and a deep, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the pleasant soreness between her legs.