Chapter 30: Emily
The world had softened at the edges. That was Svet’s first coherent thought, sometime later, as she sat at Joe’s kitchen island watching him massacre a packet of bacon. The sharp, cynical corners of her mind felt padded. His kitchen was a monument to function—big appliances, clean lines, everything built for a man his size. Sun streamed in, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. She wore one of his Chargers t-shirts, which hung on her like a dress, and the scent of him—clean cotton, sleep, and something indefinably male—wrapped around her.
Every few moments, his eyes would find hers from across the kitchen. A slow, quiet smile would touch his lips, and a corresponding heat would bloom low in her belly, a fresh echo of the morning. She felt studied, memorized, in a way that didn’t feel intrusive. It felt like being seen.
“I should probably go home,” she said, not moving an inch. “Shower. Actual clothes.”
“You don’t like my clothes?” He cracked an egg one-handed into a sizzling pan.
“I love your clothes. They smell like you. But my roommate will think I’ve been murdered.” She paused. “Or, worse, that I finally landed a decent guy and she’ll want details.”
Joe plated the food—a mountain of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast—and brought it over, setting it before her. He leaned down and kissed the crown of her head. “Eat. Then I’ll drive you.”
They ate in a comfortable silence punctuated by the scrape of forks and the low hum of his refrigerator. It was ordinary. It was everything.
The CSUN Game Room felt different. Or maybe she was different. The clack of pool balls was the same, the buzz of the cheap neon over Table Four, the faint, perpetually sticky feel of the floor under her boots. But she was hyper-aware of Joe’s presence beside her, a solid, warm wall of muscle. He’d changed into gray sweatpants and a tight black tee that did absolutely nothing to hide what he was. Heads turned. Whispers followed. He was used to it; his expression stayed neutral, a polite mask. But his hand rested possessively on the small of her back, his thumb making slow, absent circles.
Alexa was already there, holding court near the jukebox with Edwin and Diego. Her eyes locked onto them, and a wicked grin spread across her face. She practically skipped over.
“Well, well,” she sang, looping her arm through Svet’s. “Look what the cat finally dragged in. Or, should I say, who finally dragged who in?” She stage-whispered to Joe, “Did you use the lines I gave you? The ones about the geometry of the pool table?”
Joe blushed, a faint ruddy color rising up his neck. “Shut up, Lex.”
“He did not,” Svet said, leaning into him. “He used the ‘I’m terrible at pool, please help me’ line. It was adorably transparent.”
“A classic!” Alexa laughed. Then her gaze darted between them, sharp and knowing. “You guys are…glowing. It’s disgusting. I love it.”
They migrated to their usual table. Joe pulled out a stool for Svet before settling beside her, his knee pressing against her thigh. He didn’t participate in the rapid-fire gossip Alexa launched into; he just watched, listened, his hand now resting on Svet’s thigh under the scarred tabletop. His touch was a brand.
That’s when Bridget walked in.
Bridget lived three doors down from Svet in the apartment complex. She was a business major with a influencer’s smile and a predator’s eyes. She’d made a pass at Joe months ago, at a party Alexa dragged Svet to. Joe had been characteristically polite and utterly disinterested. Bridget had never forgiven Svet for simply being there to witness it.
“Svet! Oh my God, hi!” Bridget’s voice was honey laced with vinegar. She floated over, a cloud of expensive perfume cutting through the stale popcorn smell. Her eyes slid over Svet and immediately locked onto Joe. “And Joe. Wow. Hey. I haven’t seen you in forever.”
“Bridget,” Joe said with a stiff nod. His hand didn’t move from Svet’s thigh.
“We were just talking about the beach,” Bridget said, leaning a hip against their table, effectively boxing Svet out. “My parents’ place in Malibu is free this weekend. A bunch of us are going. You should totally come. It’ll be a blast.” Her gaze was fixed on Joe, her smile a perfect, inviting arc.
Alexa, sensing blood in the water, jumped in. “A beach house? In Malibu? Hell yes, who’s going?”
“Oh, you know, the fun crowd,” Bridget said, finally flicking a glance at Svet. “You’re welcome too, Svet. If you’re not busy.”
The condescension was so thick you could choke on it. Svet felt the old defenses slam up, a sarcastic retort poised on her tongue. But before she could speak, Joe’s thumb pressed harder into her leg.
“I’ve got training most of the weekend,” Joe said, his voice flat. “Thanks, though.”
Bridget’s smile tightened. “Oh, come on! It’s just Friday night through Sunday. You can bring Svet. It’ll be cozy.” She said ‘cozy’ like it was a disease.
Alexa’s phone buzzed. She looked at it and her face fell. “Ugh. My mom. She says I can only go if…” She looked up at Joe, her expression shifting to pleading. “If you go, Joe. She says I need ‘responsible adult supervision.’” She made air quotes.
Joe sighed, the sound rumbling through him. “Lex, I told you, I have—”
“It’s just two days! Please? It’s Malibu! And if you’re there, Mom’s happy. And if you’re there,” she turned her puppy-dog eyes on Svet, “then Svet will come. Because she hates fun and would never go without you.”
“I don’t hate fun,” Svet muttered. “I hate forced socializing with people who look at my boyfriend like he’s a prize ribeye.”
Bridget’s laugh was tinkling and fake. “Don’t be dramatic. It’ll be a big group. Lots of people.”
Joe looked at Svet, a silent question in his eyes. Your call.
Svet felt the trap closing. If she said no, she was the buzzkill girlfriend keeping Joe from a weekend with his sister. If she said yes, she’d be stuck in a house with Bridget for forty-eight hours. Alexa was her best friend, her face a picture of hopeful desperation.
“Fine,” Svet said, the word tasting like defeat. “But I’m claiming the room farthest from the speakers.”
Bridget’s victorious smile was immediate. “Perfect! I’ll send the details.” She reached out and touched Joe’s forearm, letting her fingers linger. “So glad you can make it, Joe. It’ll be so much fun.” She finally left, her exit as performative as her entrance.
The moment she was out of earshot, Alexa winced. “Okay, I’m sorry. She’s the worst. But Malibu! And my mom will literally never let me do anything cool unless big brother is along as a chaperone. You’re my golden ticket.”
Joe’s hand slid up to cradle Svet’s waist. He pulled her closer, his lips near her ear. His voice was a low, private murmur. “You okay with this? Really?”
She looked up at him, at the genuine concern in his big brown eyes. She thought of the morning, of his whispered ‘my love,’ of the total, shocking surrender. A weekend. What was a weekend? “As long as I’m with you,” she said, and meant it more than she wanted to admit. “And as long as you promise not to leave me alone with the piranha.”
He kissed her temple, a firm, possessive press of his lips. “I’ll be your human shield.”
Diego racked the balls on the pool table with a loud crack. “So, are we playing or what? Or are you two just gonna keep doing that weird telepathic couple thing?”
Svet stood, grabbing a cue. The familiar weight in her hands grounded her. “Prepare to lose,” she said, forcing her usual bravado.
As she bent to take her shot, she felt Joe’s eyes on her, a physical warmth tracing the line of her spine. Bridget, the beach house, the crowd—it was all just static. The only signal that mattered was the quiet, steady pull between them, a magnetism that had already rewritten all her rules. She lined up the shot, the one ball clean into the corner pocket. The crack of the break was satisfyingly decisive. For now, that was enough.