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True to his word, Shane framed the article. You grin at it in its position of prestige above his headboard, as he grins at you.
“It’s great, right?”
You elbow him. “Now what, hot shot? Total domination of the valley’s egg supply?”
He cocks his head. “Feeling threatened, farmer?”
Your grin is so big it hurts your face. “I think it balances out, in the end — you’re still dependant on my hot pepper production.”
He smirks, taking a step back into the room — it’s still a mess, but buttery sunlight makes the chaos a little cheerier, and Shane makes the place glow. That brightness seems to be catching, because you can feel your cheeks warm when he turns his attention onto you at full wattage.
“On that note I had a great fucking idea. No wait — listen to this: pizza… with a hot pepper crust. So you get the best of both worlds.”
“You’re full of bangers today, aincha?”
You follow him into a half-turn, the little waltz you’re doing around each other comfortable in a way that’s familiar, the steps learned from stubbornness and resilience.
“Hey, with my brains and your produce, we’d put Joja out of business overnight.”
“Run them clear out of the valley.”
He laughs. “See, I’m not just a pretty face.”
“No one said you were the brains of this operation.”
“Well at least you agree we’re better as a team: Dingus and Dorkbrain Inc. We can trademark it.”
“I’ll get it tattooed to my forehead.”
“Across my ass, farmer.”
“Send me a picture.”
“You can hold my hand while they ink it.”
Yoba, it’s a good afternoon. They don’t always come so easy, but it’s so good to become saturated that it pains you to leave. You will, though: you need to fill the chickens’ trough because tomorrow promises rain.
“I’ve gotta get back, Shane. It’s quarter to six already.”
He reaches, stopping just short of your sleeve. “See you at the Saloon later?”
“Yeah,” you say, and two things happen simultaneously:
His hand falls innocuously to your arm to give it a squeeze, and you lean in with a gesture that’s as easy as your banter.
His lips are soft beneath yours, frozen in surprise because neither of you are supposed to have crossed this line. The shock arrives with a delay as the kiss brushes by, caught as soon as you’ve realized what you’re doing; what you’ve done; what you’re still feeling as your mouth tingles with the theft.
He exhales a sharp breath, green eyes bright with shock, trying to piece together the boundaries between friendship and… whatever that was.
You’re not dating.
You’ve never discussed it.
No bouquets have been exchanged, nor any promises —
And Shane?
“I’m so sorry —” you start.
“Fuck,” he croaks, and closes the distance before you can escape.
His mouth lands on yours again, and this time there’s hunger mixed in to the rhythm as your mouth drops open, rigid with anticipation of something worse: accusations, maybe, or anger, or rejection, but his tongue touches yours and beneath the sweet of the Joja cola he drank recently there’s just… Shane’s hand around the back of your neck, pulling you into the soft heat of his sweatshirt and the body underneath, and the flood of feeling too much. All at once.
Hands and tongues and lips mingled with the things you imagined about him lined up against the reality of your thighs slotting together, your hips following.
This is your friend.
The thought sends you lurching back a step, your heart hurtling against your ribs, fingers pressed to your lips as if to hold in the memory of a kiss that keeps burning the longer you both stand there, staring at each other.
What the fuck just happened?
And Shane just stares for a second, breathing heavily, his pants tented and not even the slightest bit ashamed.
Sunlight washes gold over him, lighting every little piece of him you’ve nurtured for the past year — all that darkness illuminated so you can’t deny that it’s there — but the look he wears stops the world on its axis:
He’s smiling: a little dishevelled, a little raw, but spread wide open at the slightest prompting so you can see the whole of his tender parts when he softens and says, “I’ll see you then.”