Chapter 5: Normal
The silence after he left was a physical thing. It filled Kira’s apartment, thick and echoing with everything unsaid. Svet stood in the center of the living room, her fingertips pressed to her lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his.
“He didn’t stay,” Kira observed, emerging from her bedroom. She wasn’t judging. Just stating a fact.
“No.” Svet let her hand fall. “He said the thing we ruin was the pretending. That we build what comes next… together. Going zero to sixty in my best friend’s apartment felt like building on quicksand.”
Kira nodded, handing her a glass of water. “Smart. Annoyingly mature. But smart.”
The night stretched, long and restless. Svet slept on Kira’s couch, her mind replaying the seismic shift of the day on a loop. The burn of the gloss. The shocking softness of his mouth against hers, turning fierce. The hard line of him under her. The raw confession in her car. His quiet assurance in the lamplight. It was too much data. Her psychology textbooks offered no frameworks for this.
A text glowed on her phone at 7:03 AM.
Edwin: Building starts with breakfast? The usual place.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Simple. Direct. No punctuation. Utterly him.
Svet: Only if you’re buying. My treat was the chemical warfare.
Edwin: Fair.
The diner was a cathedral of chrome and vinyl. They slid into a back booth, the ghost of a thousand shared pancakes between them. The air was different. Charged. He watched her pour syrup into a spiraling pattern, his eyes tracing the movement of her hands.
“How’s the throat?” she asked, needing to anchor them in the mundane.
“Better. The psychoactive lozenges helped.” A faint smile. “How’s the… panic?”
She met his gaze. “Manageable. It mutates. Now it’s just a low-grade hum of ‘what now?’”
“Now,” he said, stealing a strip of her bacon, “we eat. Then we go to our respective classes where you will overanalyze everything and I will mostly think about that sound you made in the car. Then tonight, we meet at The Grid with everyone. Like always.”
“Like always,” she repeated, testing the words. They felt like a lie and a promise woven together.
The day passed in a blur of lectures she didn’t hear. She saw his face on every PowerPoint slide. Felt his hands on her hips during a lab demonstration. The ‘what now’ hum grew louder.
The Grid was a cavern of controlled chaos—neo-arcade games, air hockey, skeeball lanes, and a long, glossy bar lit by pulsing blue LEDs. The familiar sounds—digital explosions, the clatter of tokens, laughter—usually felt like home. Tonight, they felt like a screen to hide behind.
Jake and Kira were already there, locked in a vicious battle at a racing game. Svet hovered near a vintage Pac-Man cabinet, her Celsius can cold in her hand. She saw him the moment he walked in.
Edwin moved through the crowd with a cop’s quiet awareness, not a musician’s flamboyance. He wore a dark grey henley, sleeves pushed up over forearms corded with tendon and vein. His eyes scanned, found her, and the connection was a live wire snapping taut across the room. He didn’t smile, just gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. I see you.
He made his way to her. For a long moment, they just stood by the garish cabinet, the 8-bit ghosts blipping silently between them.
“You came,” she said.
“You’re here,” he replied. As if her presence was the only necessary coordinate.
They migrated to the bar to get drinks for the group. And that’s when the equilibrium shattered.
“Svet! Hey!” The voice was smooth, confident, cutting through the techno beat. Marcus emerged from behind the bar, a towel slung over his shoulder. His grin was all white teeth and practiced charm. “Haven’t seen you in a while. You finally ditch your entourage?” His gaze flicked to Edwin, acknowledging him with a casual dip of his chin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Edwin. Heard your set last week. It was… heartfelt.”
“Marcus,” Edwin said, the name a neutral statement.
“What can I get you?” Marcus leaned on the bar, his focus returning to Svet, intense and exclusive. “The usual cranberry soda? Or can I convince you to try the new passionfruit cocktail? It’s sweet. With a kick.” His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a beat.
The gesture was a spark thrown on dry tinder. Svet felt Edwin go very still beside her, a predator’s stillness. She felt a flush creep up her neck. “Just the soda, thanks. And a beer for—”
“I’ve got it,” Edwin said, his voice low. He didn’t look at Marcus. He was looking at Svet, his gaze a question, a challenge, a claim. The hum inside her crystallized into a single, ringing note.
Marcus, misreading the tension, chuckled. “Cool, cool. You know, Svet, I’m off in twenty. You and your friends sticking around? Could finally claim that game of pool you owe me.”
It was the casual presumption, the “owe me,” as if they had a private history. As if the last week hadn’t happened. As if Edwin wasn’t standing right there, vibrating with a silent, potent energy.
Before Svet could form a words, Edwin moved.
He didn’t step between them. He turned fully towards her, his body eclipsing Marcus, the bar, the entire noisy room. One hand came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb stroking the arch of her cheekbone, a mirror of their touch in the car. His eyes searched hers, asking permission, declaring intent.
Her breath caught. She gave the slightest nod.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t the frantic, burning collision of the car. It wasn’t the slow, promising exploration of Kira’s doorway. This was something else entirely. It was deliberate. Public. A boundary drawn in front of the only witness who mattered. His lips were firm, possessive without being rough, sealing a truth right there under the blinking LED lights. She could taste the faint mint on his breath, feel the steady pressure that said mine. She melted into it, her hand coming up to fist in the fabric of his henley at his waist, anchoring herself in the storm of his declaration.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. The world came rushing back in—the music, the games, the shocked, frozen tableau she knew was just to their left.
“Okay,” he murmured, the word for her alone.
“Okay,” she breathed back.
Only then did he turn, his arm slipping around her shoulders to tuck her firmly against his side. He looked at Marcus, whose charming grin had vanished, replaced by a stunned, slack-jawed expression.
“She’s with me,” Edwin said. The words weren’t growled. They were delivered with a quiet, final certainty, like stating the time or the weather. An immutable fact.
Marcus recovered, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender, a tight laugh escaping him. “Right. Message received. Loud and clear.” He grabbed a glass, turning his back to them to fill it with a clumsy clatter.
Edwin guided Svet away from the bar, his hand a warm, firm brand on her shoulder. They walked back toward the racing games where Kira and Jake had frozen, their controllers dangling forgotten.
Jake’s mouth was open. Kira’s eyes were saucers, her gaze darting from Svet’s flushed face to Edwin’s composed, defiant one, to the retreating figure of Marcus behind the bar.
“What,” Kira finally managed, her voice a squeak, “in the actual hell was that?”
Edwin kept his arm around Svet. He looked at their friends, his expression unflinching. “That,” he said, his voice carrying over the digital engines and synth-pop, “was me not pretending anymore.”
The silence that fell between their little group was absolute. The chaos of The Grid swirled around a new, undeniable center of gravity. Jake let out a low whistle. Kira’s shock melted into a wide, dazzling, triumphant grin.
Svet leaned into Edwin’s side, the solid reality of him holding her up. The ‘what now’ hum hadn’t disappeared. It had simply changed its tune. It was no longer a question of panic, but the thrilling, terrifying vibration of a foundation being laid, in full view of everyone, brick by undeniable brick.
It was no longer a question of panic, but the thrilling, terrifying vibration of a foundation being laid, in full view of everyone, brick by undeniable brick. Kira recovered first, launching herself at them to wrap both in a tight, squealing hug. “Finally! Oh my god, finally! The psychic toll of your mutual pining was bankrupting me.”
Jake just shook his head, a grin splitting his face. “So the lip gloss was a joint operation. I knew it.” He clapped Edwin on the shoulder. “Bold move, man. I thought you were gonna put him in a wristlock.”
“Considered it,” Edwin said, his voice dry, but his arm tightened around Svet.
The group migrated to a high-top table cluttered with empty glasses. A server brought a round of shots without them asking, winking at Svet. “On Marcus. He said ‘congratulations.’” Her tone implied the word had been dipped in something sour.
Kira slammed her shot, her eyes sparkling. “Okay, details. Not the car details—I’ll get those later under torture. The plan. What is the plan?”
Svet felt everyone’s eyes on her. She reached for Edwin’s hand under the table, lacing her fingers with his. The calluses on his palms were a tangible reality. “The plan is there is no plan,” she said, and it felt true. “We’re just… not pretending.”
“A sound operational strategy,” Jake nodded, feigning seriousness. “Very tactical.”
Edwin took a slow pull from his beer, his thumb rubbing circles on Svet’s knuckle. The simple touch sent current straight up her arm. “The plan is I get to do this now,” he said, looking only at her. He lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers, his lips warm and firm against her skin. It was a small, deliberate action that felt more intimate than the public kiss.
Kira fanned her face dramatically. “I need a stronger beverage.”
Svet sat next to Kira at the sticky high-top, a fresh drink in front of her—something sweet and deceptively strong Marcus had sent over before his shift ended, a final, bitter benediction. She drank it anyway. The alcohol spread through her veins, a warm, loosening agent. Her laugh came easier, louder. The blush wasn’t just from the drink; it was the lingering heat of Edwin’s stare, which hadn’t left her all night.
He leaned against the Skeeball lane nearby, talking to Jake, but his gaze was a fixed point. It tracked the sweep of her hair as she threw her head back, the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the way her shirt slipped off one shoulder. Every glance felt like a physical touch, a reminder of his hands on her in the car, his mouth on hers at the bar.
A fast, pulsing song cut through the din. Kira grabbed Svet’s wrist. “Dance. Now. No arguments.”
They pushed into a small clearing near the vintage jukebox, all flashing lights and thrashing bodies. Svet let the rhythm take her, the alcohol turning her movements fluid, uninhibited. She wasn’t a great dancer, but she was whole-hearted, throwing herself into it with the same abandon she used on a golf course. Her blonde hair was a bright, sweaty chaos. Her mismatched socks peeked above her boots as she moved.
Edwin stopped talking. He just watched. The noise, the crowd, Jake’s voice beside him—it all faded into a muffled blur. His beer bottle grew warm, forgotten in his hand.
He’d seen her a thousand times. Laughing, concentrating, sleeping on his couch. He’d catalogued her features with a silent, desperate precision. But this was different. This was beauty as a force, kinetic and unconscious. It wasn’t posed or performed. It was in the honest stretch of her neck, the clumsy, joyful swing of her arms, the way her entire being seemed to radiate a pure, unlocked joy. It was the most terrifying and beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed, because it was his. He had kissed that mouth, had felt that body yield against his. The claim he’d staked at the bar felt absurdly small now. He wanted to build a wall around this moment, around her, and live inside it.
Svet spun, catching his stare. The world snapped back into sharp, noisy focus. His expression wasn’t just desire. It was awe, stripped completely bare. It hit her like a punch to the chest, stealing her breath mid-step. The dance faltered. She just stared back, stranded in the crowd, her chest heaving.
He pushed off the lane and started moving toward her. He didn’t weave; the crowd seemed to part for him. His eyes held hers, a gravitational pull. Kira saw him coming, her grin widening as she melted away.
Edwin reached her. The music was a tangible throb in the air between them. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He slid one hand around the back of her damp neck, the other settling low on her hip, his grip sure and possessive. His touch was a conversation. Mine. This.
She moved with him, their dancing morphing into something slower, simpler, a private syncopation in the public chaos. Her arms went around his neck. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder. She could feel the solid beat of his heart through his shirt. “You’re staring,” she murmured into the space where his neck met his collarbone.
“I know.” His voice was rough at her ear. “I’m memorizing it.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. The lights strobed across his face, highlighting the stark want there. “The plan,” she said, the words sloshing with a courage that was half alcohol, half him, “is I go home with you tonight. Not to stay. Not to… do everything. But to be where you are. Without an audience.”
He absorbed this. His hand flexed on her hip. “My place is a closet. And my roommate is probably playing video games in his boxers.”
“I don’t care.” She brushed her mouth against his jaw, feeling him shudder. “I want to see where you sleep. I want to know if your sheets are as grey as your t-shirts.”
A real smile, then, breaking through the intensity. “They’re worse.”
“Good.” She kissed him, slow and deep, there in the middle of the dancing bodies. The ghost of the spicy gloss was long gone, replaced by the cleaner taste of him and her drink. When she pulled away, her voice was firm. “Take me there. Now.”
The walk to her car was a study in magnetic disturbance. Kira waved them off with a exaggerated, tearful handkerchief mime, Jake offering a solemn salute. Edwin took her keys without a word, his fingers brushing hers, and the simple contact felt more illicit than the kiss at the bar.
The BMW’s interior was a capsule of their history, now charged with a new, unstable energy. He adjusted the seat, the motor whirring, and she slumped into the passenger side, the world tilting pleasantly. The alcohol, a mix of sweet cocktails and triumphant shots, had fully metastasized in her bloodstream, blurring the sharp edges of her panic into a warm, liquid need.
“You good?” he asked, starting the engine. The dashboard glowed, painting his profile in soft blues and greens.
“Mmm. Perfect.” She turned in the seat, the leather cool against her cheek, and just watched him. The concentrated set of his shoulders as he checked mirrors, the precise shift of his wrist as he put the car in gear. Every movement was captivating. “You drive like a cop already.”
“It’s called not dying.”
“Boring.” She let her hand fall from her own lap onto the center console, then onto his thigh. The denim was rough under her fingertips. She felt the hard line of muscle beneath, tense as he pressed the accelerator.
He drew a sharp breath. “Svet.”
“Just mapping the terrain.” Her fingers walked higher, to the sensitive place where his quad met his hip. He was solid, warm. Alive. Her thumb pressed in a slow circle.
The car surged slightly before he corrected. His grip on the wheel was knuckle-white. “You’re going to get us pulled over.”
“You are the pull-over.” She giggled, the sound loose and foreign to her own ears. The streetlights strobed through the windshield, illuminating his face in flashes. The focused frown, the tight clench of his jaw. She wanted to unravel that control, to see the frayed edges she’d felt in the dark of her car. She unbuckled her seatbelt with a definitive click.
“Put that back on.”
“No.” She leaned across the console, her hair spilling over his arm. She nuzzled into the side of his neck, inhaling the clean scent of his soap, the underlying note of just him from a long night. Her lips found the hot skin below his ear. She kissed it, open-mouthed and damp.
“Christ.” The word was a strangled exhale. The car swerved, tires brushing the lane divider with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump before he wrenched it straight.
His reaction fueled her. She traced the shell of his ear with her tongue, then bit the lobe gently. He tasted like salt and promise. Her hand slid further up his thigh, inward, seeking the heat she remembered pressing against her. He was hard, even through the jeans, and feeling him jump under her touch sent a bolt of pure, drunken lightning through her core.
He grabbed her wrist, his fingers a firm manacle. “Stop. Or I am pulling over right now.”
“Promise?” She breathed the word against his pulse point, feeling it hammer against her lips.
He didn’t answer. He drove, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hold on her wrist didn’t loosen, but his thumb began stroking the frantic beat inside her own. It was a concession and a restraint all at once. She rested her head against his shoulder, her breath gusting hot on his neck, her trapped hand still cupping the tense heat of him. Every shift of the car, every turn, made her more aware of the rigid line of his body beside hers.
The rest of the drive was a silent, excruciating symphony of shared breath and restrained motion. He took corners with agonizing care. He stopped completely at every yellow light. The fifteen-minute trip felt endless, a drawn-out, sweet torture.
When he finally killed the engine in the driveway of a small duplex, the sudden silence was deafening. The only sounds were their ragged breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. The porch light was off; the windows were dark save for the blue flicker of a television in the front room.
He released her wrist. They sat there, engulfed by the quiet and what they’d just done, what she’d started. The drunken heat in her belly was now a focused, throbbing point of awareness.
“We need a minute,” he said, his voice scraped raw. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring straight ahead at the darkened house, his hands still gripping the wheel at ten and two.
She leaned back into her seat, the reality of where they were—at his house, alone, the night stretching ahead—suddenly sobering in its immensity. The daring that had possessed her in the moving car drained away, leaving a hollow, anxious excitement.
“Yeah,” she whispered, her own voice small. “A minute.”