Chapter 1 - The Six-Inch DivideMy fingers brushed the cool metal of the zipper pull, and the entire apartment seemed to hold its breath.
The silence between us wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet we shared while watching late-night television or cooking side-by-side on a Tuesday. This was electric. It hummed in the air like a live wire, vibrating right through the skin of my thumbs as I tried to coax the stubborn fabric free.
"You're shaking," Ava whispered.
"I am not shaking."
"Ben, your thumb is vibrating against my spine."
"It's the cold noodles," I lied, my voice dropping an octave lower than intended. "Low blood sugar makes the nervous system erratic."
"Right. Medical science."
She shifted back an inch, and before I could process the tactical error, her shoulder blades pressed lightly against my chest. My hands stopped moving entirely. Every rational thought I had cultivated over nine months—every mantra about how roommates didn't cross lines, how losing Ava as a friend would destroy what little stability I had left—evaporated.
"Well?" she prompted, her voice softening. "Are you going to fix it, or are you just going to stand there memorizing my vertebrae?"
"I found three new ones today," I muttered, finally giving the zipper a firm, gentle tug.
Zzzzt.
The fabric slid home, sealing the midnight-blue dress against her skin all the way to the nape of her neck. But instead of stepping away, Ava stayed right where she was. She tilted her head back, looking up at me over her shoulder, her hazel eyes searching my face with a directness that made my chest ache.
"You've been staring at me for nine months, Ben."
The sentence dropped into the kitchen like a lead weight.
I stopped breathing. The carton of sesame noodles slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum floor with a plastic thud, noodles scattering everywhere. Neither of us looked down.
"What?" I managed to say.
"Nine months," she repeated, turning around to face me fully now. The proximity was dizzying. "Ever since the night you helped me carry that heavy dresser up the stairs and dropped it on your foot, and you didn't swear once because you didn't want to wake the neighbors. You think you're so subtle."
"Ava, I—"
"Don't," she interrupted, her voice dropping to a fierce, quiet intensity. "Don't give me the roommate speech. Don't tell me about boundaries or grocery shelves or lease agreements. I'm sick to death of boundaries."
Before I could construct a defense, before I could figure out whether my heart was breaking or finally starting to beat, the front door rattled.
The heavy deadbolt clicked.
The door swung wide open, and a deep, unfamiliar voice echoed into the hallway.
"Ava? Babe? Are you decent? I brought champagne and a whole lot of explaining to do."
My blood ran instantly cold.
May you like
Ava froze. The defiant fire in her eyes vanished, replaced by sudden, absolute panic.
And as a tall, broad-shouldered man with designer stubble and an expensive leather jacket stepped into our kitchen, I realized the night hadn't just gotten complicated. It had just exploded.
