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The light is still on. Could it be her? Her parents don’t seem to mind her staying up late at night, if our encounter out front all those nights ago is any indication. I think of her eyes, her smiling mouth, the golden freckles on her shoulders and over her slender collarbone, and groan softly.
I haven’t had time to think of girls during the past year, or the energy to want them, but Sydney… she somehow found a way under my skin, and into my dreams. Not tonight, sadly, but I often wake up with her face in my thoughts, her voice in my ears, and an uncomfortable hard-on under the sheets.
Of all the girls I could have wanted, of course I’d go for the one desired by two other guys—Nate and the brooding guy downstairs, for both of whom she seems to have feelings.
Fucking awesome.
So it makes no sense that I put away the filter in my pouch and swing my legs over the rail, then jump the small distance to her balcony and climb in.
Her balcony door is cracked open. I push it and enter.
Dunno what I’m doing. The light may be her mom, having a late-night snack. Or her dad, for all I know, though she never mentioned him.
Or a thief who broke in and will shoot me the moment I knock on the door.
My chest squeezes, the adrenaline mixing with the lingering effects of the weed, turning my stomach. This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here.
But I keep going, a strange need to see her, talk to her driving me on. Stepping in the half-darkness, around her sofa and a side table, I reach the kitchen door and look inside.
She’s sitting at the kitchen table, her face in her hands. Her shoulders are shaking, so slightly I’d have missed it if I’d been able to take my eyes off her.
I’m staring at her crying, a pressure in my chest that I don’t understand. What do I care if she’s sad, right? The world is unfair, I’ve experienced that first-hand. Plus, I barely know her. This has nothing to do with me.
I shouldn’t be here. I should just walk away. Away from her, from this neighborhood, these complications. She probably doesn’t want me here anyway. Who wants a virtual stranger to see them crying, invading a private moment they have no business being a part of?
But then she wipes at her cheeks and looks up, gasping and surging to her feet.
Our gazes lock.
Her lower lip trembles, but she presses her lips together.
And that little show of determination clinches something for me, something I don’t understand.
I walk into her kitchen, my bare feet padding silently on the floor. Her chair screeches as she pushes it back to stand, and then I have my arms full of trembling, pretty girl.
“You okay?”
“No,” she breathes.
“Where’s your mom?” I whisper.
“Not here.”
“Your dad?”
“Neither.” A hiccup escapes her. “Kash…”
She doesn’t ask me how I got in or what I’m doing here. I don’t ask her why she’s crying. I don’t tell her it will be okay.
What’s the use? Pulling her closer, I hold her, and she holds me. Her touch unlocks me. Moves my pieces as if I’m a puzzle and only she knows the final picture. I never realized how much I needed someone to hug me like this, to need me.
I came to comfort her, and she’s comforting me.
Whatever this is, I can’t walk away from it, not tonight, and fuck the consequences.
Chapter Nine
Sydney
