Chapter 8: Crossing the Line

I rushed through Short North, out of breath, and scootered to Shane’s place with spicy chicken from Lucky Dragon.

Knocked three times. He took forever to answer—probably struggling with the locks.

He stared at me, water dripping from his hair, shampoo suds on his neck.

"Why’d you come?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"What, you want to starve or drown in your own shower?"

He couldn’t even eat properly with his left hand—last time I had to feed him.

"You should’ve called me for help. What if you slipped again? Another ER trip and we’re both bankrupt."

"Didn’t you have plans?" He muttered, but the corners of his mouth turned up.

I pulled him to the bathroom and helped wash his hair, massaging his scalp.

While drying his hair, he opened the takeout container.

No jalapeños—just the way he liked it.

He smiled for real.

"Luke, how’d you convince the chef to make spicy chicken with zero jalapeños? That’s basically sacrilege."

"Picked them out by hand. Took me ten minutes with chopsticks."

His hand paused, expression softening.

He ate slowly, savoring every bite.

I used the towel to dry his hair, not noticing how his eyes softened.

After he cleaned his plate, I grabbed the Dyson and started blow-drying.

As the hair dryer roared, he whispered, “Thanks.”

His hair was thick and stubborn—would probably look good even messy.

Wondered if he’d go bald as a programmer one day. The thought made me smirk.

I looked down—he was watching me, gaze dark and intense.

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh.

"What? Too hot? Too cold? This thing has like twelve settings."

"No. It’s perfect."

He looked away, ears tinged pink.

I realized I was standing between his legs—way too close.

I stepped back fast, but he grabbed my wrist and pulled me back, gentle but insistent.

"Keep going. You missed the back."

"Okay," I squeaked.

I focused on his hair, not daring to look down.

He was wearing gray Ohio State sweatpants, and the tent was impossible to ignore.

I finished, stepped back, almost tripped on the mat.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the evidence—he was definitely turned on.

I stared at the tent in his sweatpants, my heart thudding in my chest. For the first time, I wondered if I was the one getting played.