Never Ever

32| Cold shower

I wait for the whoosh of regret to settle in as he leads me to the bedroom, but it doesn't. Staying in Noah's apartment isn't the end of the world. It doesn't mean he'll pull an Aaron tomorrow and decide I'm not worth it if we don't have sex. It doesn't mean anything except I was wrong, and Noah isn't the devil reincarnated. The jury's still out on his friends, though.

The click of the door sounds behind us. I realize I'm still tipsy—not overly so, but enough to feel the flutter in my chest and the slight sway in my step as I follow him inside. But behind the lingering urge to be sick, there's a familiar sense of comfort at being in Noah's room, like he makes me feel safe, so by default, his room does too.

Without a word, Noah moves through the darkness to his table, flipping the bedside light on. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden soft glow, focusing first on his clean, spotless desk and then on his sage-colored sheets.

His neatness will never not surprise me. Having mixed with countless athletes all my life, I know that most of us cave to the compulsive desire for perfection and order, but I'd assumed, due to his hectic note-taking style, Noah was the exception.

Suddenly, he turns around, facing me directly, his clothes still drenched with water. I take in his hair, dark and sticking to his forehead in curls, then slide my gaze to his mouth. I want to kiss him, which seems like a strange thought to have after what happened, but I do.

Not the guy he was before me or the one I think might hurt me, but the guy on that rooftop, who fearlessly jumped into the water to save who he thought was in need. The guy who held my hand, wiped my tears and assured me that everything would be okay, even when it didn't feel like it.

The guy who bought me cupcakes.

"There are t-shirts and boxers in the top drawer if you want to shower," he says, stepping closer. "Clean, obviously."

I run my gaze across the rest of his room, over the spotless antique dresser in the corner to the neatly folded blanket on the ottoman. "I believe you. I think your standards of cleanliness are even higher than mine."

His dark eyebrow arches. Slowly, he grins. "Hold on–" his gaze grows electric as he closes the last remaining space between us, "–is this you admitting that I've met your approval?"

I pretend to think about it, half-overwhelmed by how close we're standing, half-wishing he could somehow be closer. And it's not even the champagne, which I'm certain has worn off by now. It's this primal urge I've been feeling – and fighting – since the first night I met him, the same impulse that led me to his apartment tonight. Despite my instincts, hang-ups, and fear, I'm falling for the captain of the Calbears.

I just don't know what to do about it.

"The cupcakes definitely scored you points," I say, aware of my heart racing. "You're getting there, Atterwood."

"Yeah?" His arms snake around me, one around my waist and the other behind my neck, pulling me closer. "What can I do to speed things up?"

I raise my gaze, feeling the tension as his eyes darken. His face lowers toward mine, the desire to kiss me clear on his face, yet the little contracted muscles in his neck suggest he's fighting it.

"Fuck." He steps back, breathing ragged as he runs an unsteady hand down his jaw. "Why did you have to drink tonight, Blue?"

Maybe I'm sadistic, but his stopping himself from kissing me only makes me want to kiss him harder. "I had a glass and a half of champagne," I say, "and I felt tipsy for all of two seconds before the sex doll incident sobered me up. I'm not drunk, Noah. I just don't want to not kiss you any longer."