Page 45 of Seeds of Love
I’m about to deliver a witty comeback when disaster strikes. The stress ball, apparently tired of my shenanigans, decides to make a break for freedom. It bounces off my desk with incredible precision, scoring a direct hit on Alex’s water glass.
Time seems to slow down as the glass tips, unleashing a miniature tsunami all over Alex and my bed.
“Shit!” I yelp, leaping up like I’ve sat on a hedgehog. But it’s too late. Alex is soaked, her white t-shirt now totally see-through.
“Oh my God,” she squeaks, crossing her arms over her chest. I’m about to comment on the fact that I’ve already seen her magnificent chest when I decide against it. Her face turns a deep red.
“I’m so sorry!” I scramble for the nearest cloth, which, of course, happens to be the t-shirt I wore to the gym. Nothing says “I’m helping” like trying to mop up a spill with eau-de-sweaty-workout.
In my haste to fix this sitcom-worthy disaster, I manage to make things exponentially worse. Suddenly, my hand is… oh no.
Oh no.
I’m cupping Alex’s boob like it’s a fragile egg and I’m a very confused chicken.
We both freeze, wide-eyed and mortified. For a moment, we’re living statues in the world’s most awkward art installation.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll get you a dry shirt,” I stammer, bolting up. I grab the first thing I find—an old band tee that would fit a small elephant—and thrust it at her, my eyes firmly fixed on the floor. “Here. I’ll wait outside while you change.”
I flee the room, closing the door and leaning against it like I’m barricading myself from zombies.
I’ve touched boobs before. So why am I suddenly acting like a hormonal teenager who just discovered girls don’t have cooties?
An eternity (or maybe three minutes) later, the door opens. Alex steps out, and my brain short-circuits. She’s swimming in my t-shirt. The hem reaches her knees, and her damp hair curls at the ends.
“Thanks,” she says softly, tugging at the shirt hem. “I feel like I’m wearing a circus tent.”
I clear my throat, trying to remember how words work. “It, uh, it looks good on you.”Brilliant, Freddie. Shakespeare himself would weep at your eloquence.
Alex’s eyes widen slightly, then she smiles. “Thanks. Though I think your fashion sense is stuck somewhere between color-blind roadie and thrift-store dumpster dive,” she teases, gesturing to the faded band logo that looks like it went through a blender.
Just like that, the tension breaks. We’re back on familiar ground—friends, joking around, definitely not thinking about accidental boob grabs or how good she looks in my clothes.
“Hey, don’t knock the shirt,” I protest, grinning. “It’s vintage. Like fine wine, but for cotton.”
As we head back to our study session, I can’t help but sneak glances at Alex. The sight of her in my shirt is doing things to me that I’m pretty sure violate several laws of physics and possibly a few commandments.
She hums absentmindedly, already buried in her textbook. We fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of pencils and the occasional groan of despair (mostly from me).
As Alex settles back on the bed, still drowning in fabric, I notice how the neckline slips off one shoulder and her collarbone is exposed. A collarbone I remember the taste of. She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear, and I find myself following the movement, mesmerized.
It’s official: I’m in trouble.
Big, Alex-shaped trouble.
“Freddie?” Her voice snaps me back to reality. She’s looking at me with a mixture of confusion and… something.
I clear my throat, trying to remember how words work. “Yeah?”
“You’re staring,” she says softly, her voice somewhere between amused and nervous.
“Oh. Sorry, I just…” I trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence. Do I admit that I was imagining kissing her senseless? Yeah, that’d definitely kill the mood.
Alex shifts closer, and suddenly the air feels thick with something electric. Her gaze flicks down to my lips, then back up to my eyes. Is she? Are we? My brain short-circuits.
I lean in, feeling the tension coil in my chest, but my body makes the decision before I do. This is a bad idea. A terrible, no-good, very bad idea. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Alex’s eyes flutter closed, and I can feel her warm breath just a fraction from my lips.
Ping!
