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"Explains why you're here, cooking for me," he muses, leaning closer.
"Maybe," I concede, my pulse quickening. "Or maybe I just wanted to make sure you eat something other than protein shakes and takeaway."
"Guilty," he admits with a shrug.
The onions are caramelizing now, and I add a splash of wine, watching it bubble and steam. Ryder's quiet, his focus on the rhythm of our task, but there's a tenderness to the way he moves.
"Missed having someone to cook for," I confess without thinking.
"Yeah, I missed having someone who cares enough to ask about my childhood at all."
"Guess we've both been a little lonely, huh?" I glance up at him, finding his gaze already on me.
"Looks like it," he agrees with a warm smile.
I swipe a strand of hair behind my ear, watching the sauce thicken as it simmers. Ryder leans against the counter.
"We should talk about the Christmas ball," he says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us.
"Right." I nod, stirring the sauce with more force than necessary. "The ball. Logistics."
He runs a hand through his hair. "It's in a few weeks. We should probably start planning what we're wearing, what time to arrive... all that stuff."
"Of course." I keep my tone light. "Can't have you showing up in jeans and a tee. The Renegades' reputation is at stake."
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. "Wouldn't dream of it. I’m not worried. You'll outshine them all, no doubt."
Heat creeps up my neck, not from the stove but from his unexpected compliment. I focus on the pasta now, dropping it into the boiling water. "Just doing my part to make us look good, Ryder."
"Jayden," he starts, then hesitates. His gaze meets mine, but then he blinks, and his tone changes. "We'll need to coordinate arrival times. And maybe practice our dance moves?" He tries for humor, but it falls a bit flat between us.
"Sure, I'll dust off my dancing shoes." I laugh, but it's tinged with nerves. There's a palpable tension now, one we're both tiptoeing around—the conversation we're not having, about feelings that might be morphing into something real and terrifying.
"Good," he replies. "Can't have you tripping over my two left feet."
"Ryder, I've seen you on the ice. You're about as graceful as they come." I give him a playful wink, trying to bridge the gap that seems to widen with every word unsaid.
"Only on the ice," he counters. Our eyes lock, and there's an honesty there, a silent acknowledgment of the connection neither of us is ready to voice aloud.
I stand there, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the simmering sauce and watching Ryder as he rests on the edge of his kitchen island.
"Please pass the salt?" I ask, and the words sound too loud in the room.
"Sure." He slides the shaker across the countertop.
In my head, I'm a one-woman cheer squad, complete with pom-poms and high kicks. Just kiss me, you big, beautiful man. Tell me you want more than this faux-mance we've cooked up. Yet, my exterior is all calm composure.
"Something on your mind, Jayden?" His voice is soft, almost hesitant.
"Nothing much. Just... thinking about the Christmas ball." It's not a lie, but it's not the screaming truth either.
"Ah." He nods, then looks away, out the window where darkness has settled over Love Beach like a blanket. "It'll be fun."
"Totally," I agree, my voice an octave higher than normal. It's like we're two teenagers fumbling with the buttons of intimacy, neither of us quite sure how to undo the knot that's keeping us from what we really want.
There’s a beat of quiet, and I mentally nudge myself to fill it, though my brain is too busy chanting, Say something romantic, dammit!
"Did you ever go to dances in high school?" I blurt out.
