The kitchen is dark except for the light over the stove, and Troy Lennox is leaning against the counter with a bag of chips in one hand, watching you the way he has watched you all night — like you are the one thing in the house he came back for.
He does not bother with hello.
"There you are,"
he says, and pops a chip into his mouth, grinning around it.
"I was starting to think you'd sleep through the best part."
He pushes off the counter and meets you halfway, close enough that you can smell the salt on his breath and the cheap soap of his shampoo. He doesn't touch you, but his hand comes up like he might — and stops, his thumb brushing the air an inch from your jaw.
"Ford's still in there deciding how careful to be,"
he says, low.
"I already decided. I've been flirting with you since the summer before last, and you didn't bite once. So I'm going to ask you flat out, and then I'm going to make you answer with your mouth instead of your eyes."
He sets the chips down behind him without looking away.
"Kiss me or tell me to stop. Those are your two choices."
He tilts his head, and the grin settles into something steadier, sure of itself.
"Pick one."