𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈

• 36 •

I stared at the man whose eyes were tracing lines on a page in Doctor Zhivago, one of the many books that made me feel as though I were in hell during college. I made a book report about it once; sometime into the night found myself questioning if I had chosen the right course. The first third of the book was a mental bloodbath, my mind unable to remember characters and make sense of the locations' relevance.

He stood near my bookshelf looking as Keenan as always. His outfit was still intact: maroon shirt and black pants under a dark gray jacket. I can never take for granted the ability of Mr. Travino to look stunning in basics. Then there's me: big shirt, underwear, a messy-ass bun, and a busted lip. I didn't look nor feel as shitty as I did thirty minutes ago, but neither was I in my best form.

I opened my mouth and prayed that I wouldn't sound so cringe-worthy, "You and I, it's as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to Earth together to see if we know what we were taught."

"Are you pursuing me, Ms. Alexa?" he raised a brow, eyes still not leaving the novel, "if you are, it's not working. That's my least favorite line in this book."

My head leaned to the right, "And why's that?" I wondered as I crossed my arms.

He turned a page, "The type of kiss I prefer is not permitted in heaven."

I started towards Keenan, taking me time to admire the temptation in my tiny apartment, "And hell?" I questioned.

He yawned, "The devil would be jealous. He'd kick me out."

I have to admit, the line was corny—as if he had quoted it from some mafia romance book or a crime trope with an attractive antagonist, but coming from his mouth, and his mouth sticking to one gorgeous face, I felt bubbles in my stomach—not the bad kind.

My optics flitted to the works on the shelf, automatically landing on a section for KT. I still get the same mind-blown feeling when I'm reminded that I'm personally associated with one of the most talented writers of our time. By associated, I mean that we fuck an unhealthy amount of times.

But that's not all, is it? We're friends now—more than friends, but I would not dare involve romance. The right term won't enter my mind. I don't think it even exists. We're Keenan and Gia—that's a new label itself. It's a complicated relationship that we can easily uncomplicate if we give in to the large dose of oxytocin our bodies are able to produce. But we can't do that, can we? Because we somehow limited ourselves. It's like thinking that the galaxy has edges; thinking that the sky around Earth has some sort of invisible shield that prevents humans from meeting the rest of the universe; imagining lines in the air, lines between people. Boundaries around our hearts that we've set like a second set of ribs—they keep it in place.

With that, I wondered if a hint of jealousy was present, as suggested by Ralph. Though I now know that regardless of who my best friend is, Keenan just doesn't trust men due to personal reasons, hence, the outburst; the idea of a jealous Keenan still came pushing against my brain. I ruled it out as stupid, but I need confirmation. It would do me good. At least I won't jump to conclusions.

"Shoot," he muttered. My ladder of thoughts broke in the middle and I realized that I'd been staring shamelessly at my mentor. When am I not?

"Huh?" I shook my head.

His eyes flew to mine, "When you look at me like that, you either wanna fuck or you have a question in mind. You're not in the right state for the first. Shoot."

Am I really readable or does the text just glow when it comes to Keenan? I had the instinct to back-out last-second. "So," I almost choked on the word, "you weren't jealous of Ralph. Right?"