Blaze’s POV
Dinner is elaborate. My mother went all out. Roast chicken with crispy skin. Garlic mashed potatoes. Glazed carrots. Fresh bread still warm from the oven.
All my childhood favorites, laid out like an offering. An apology served on china plates.
It should feel like coming home. Instead, it feels like a performance. Every smile is carefully placed. Every laugh is slightly too loud.
And every conversation steers toward Sophie.
"Sophie, dear, what do you do again?" My mother passes the bread basket. "Marketing? How wonderful. Such a stable career."
"You two look so natural together." She beams at us across the table. "Like it was meant to be."
"Isn't it funny how life works?" My father refills Sophie's wine glass. "You meet in college, drift apart, and years later—here you are again. Must be fate."
I notice the pattern. Every compliment to Sophie is paired with a pointed look at me. Every mention of "settling down" or "the future" lands with deliberate weight.
They're not subtle. Never have been.
Sophie handles it gracefully. Deflects the more obvious matchmaking with charm and humor. But she doesn't correct their assumptions either. Doesn't clarify that we're just friends.
Neither do I.
My father raises his glass. "To reconnections." His eyes meet mine. Something almost like approval in them. "Some things are worth waiting for."
Sophie beams, clinking her glass against his. I drink deeply. Let the wine burn down my throat. Try not to think about what I'm allowing them to believe.
By ten, everyone's had too much wine. My mother insists we stay. Won't hear otherwise.
"You can't drive like this." She's already clearing plates, voice slightly slurred. "We have a guest room. Plenty of space. I'll get fresh towels."
One guest room. One bed. My stomach drops.
"Mom, we can call an Uber."
"Nonsense!" She waves away my protest. "Just like when you brought friends home in high school. Remember Marissa? She stayed over all the time."
Marissa. My beard girlfriend from junior year. Of course that's who she remembers.
Sophie squeezes my hand under the table. "It's fine." Her smile is easy. Unconcerned. "Not like we've never shared a bed before. Shouldn't be awkward."
The words hang in the air. My mother's eyes light up with implication. My father suddenly becomes very interested in his wine glass.
Upstairs, the guest room is exactly as I remember. Small. Floral wallpaper. A full-size bed that seemed huge when I was twelve.
It looks impossibly tiny now.
Sophie sets down her bag. Stretches. "Your mom is sweet. A little intense about the grandchildren hints, but sweet."
"She's not subtle."
"Neither is your dad." Sophie laughs softly. "I think he mentioned 'settling down' at least four times."
I sit on the edge of the bed. Run my hands over my face. "I'm sorry. About all of this. The pressure…"
"Don't apologize." She crosses to stand in front of me. "I knew what I was signing up for."
Before I can respond, she's pulling her sweater over her head.
I look away instinctively. But not before I catch a glimpse—black lace bra against smooth skin. Curves I remember from college but haven't thought about in years.
"Relax." Amusement colors her voice. "Nothing you haven't seen before."
She's right. We hooked up plenty of times freshman year. Her body isn't a mystery. But that was before Asher. Before everything changed.
I hear the rustle of fabric. Her jeans hitting the floor. The creak of the mattress as she climbs in.
"Are you coming to bed? Or are you planning to sleep on the floor?"
I strip down to my boxers and t-shirt. Slide under the covers on my side. Keep a careful distance between us.
We lie side by side in the darkness. Close but not touching. The ceiling above us is familiar—same water stain in the corner from when the roof leaked twenty years ago.
"Tonight went well," Sophie whispers. "They really missed you."
"Yeah." I keep my eyes fixed upward. "Seems like it."
"You okay?"
"Just processing." She rolls onto her side, facing me as I feel her gaze on my profile.
"You don't have to process it alone, you know."
Her hand finds my chest. Warm through the thin cotton of my t-shirt. Palm resting over my heartbeat.
"Sophie…"
"Shh." Her fingers trace upward. Along my collarbone. Up my neck. To my jaw.
She leans in. Kisses me softly. Her lips are familiar. Comfortable. They taste like wine and something sweeter. Easy in ways that nothing else in my life has been lately.
I don't pull away.
When she deepens the kiss, I let her. Open my mouth to her tongue. Let myself sink into the simplicity of it.
Her body presses closer. Leg sliding over my thigh. Breasts soft against my chest through the lace of her bra. It feels good. Simple. No hiding. No panic. No complications.
No Asher.
Her hand slides lower. Over my stomach. Fingers tracing the waistband of my boxers.
My breath catches despite myself. My body responds—not with the desperate urgency I feel with Asher, but with something steadier. More controlled.
Her palm presses against me through the fabric. Feeling me harden under her touch.
"See?" she murmurs against my lips. "Not so complicated."
She strokes me slowly. Deliberately. Learning my shape through thin cotton.
I groan softly. Hips twitching into her hand. It's been weeks since anyone touched me like this. Weeks of tension and longing and—
Then I hear it.
My parents' muffled voices through the wall. Laughter. The creak of their bedroom door closing. Reality crashes back. I catch Sophie's wrist, stopping her hand.
"Not here. Not with my parents in the house."
Not with their conditional acceptance hanging over everything. Not with the weight of their expectations pressing down on this bed.
Sophie doesn't push. Doesn't pout or protest. Just smiles softly, settling back against her pillow.
"Okay." Her hand retreats to safer territory. My chest. My shoulder. "I understand."
Silence stretches between us. Comfortable but loaded.
"Does that mean we'll wait for a better occasion?"
The question hangs in the darkness. An invitation. A promise. A door she's holding open, waiting to see if I'll walk through.
I should say no. Should clarify what we are and aren't. Should stop letting her believe this is going somewhere it can't go.
"Maybe," I say instead. Coward. The word echoes in my head with Asher's voice.
Sophie curls against my side. Satisfied with the answer. Her breathing slows. Evens out. She falls asleep with her head on my shoulder.
I lie awake long after. Staring at the water-stained ceiling. Listening to the old house settle around me. Feeling the warmth of her body against mine.
Easy. That's what this is. That's what Sophie offers. A life without hiding. Without fear. Without the constant terror of discovery.
My parents would be thrilled. The world would make sense again. Everything neat and simple and exactly what it's supposed to be.
So why does "easy" feel so much like a trap?
Why does her touch leave me hollow when Asher's sets me on fire?
The questions have no answers. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. I close my eyes. Try to sleep, and dream of ice-blue eyes instead of brown.