Chapter 12: Safe in the Chaos

Cody POV

The pounding on Ryan’s door gets louder. My heart slams hard in my chest. I’m still fumbling with my shorts, legs shaky from our kitchen mess. Ryan’s pulling on a shirt, fast and sloppy. “Paparazzi,” he mutters, peeking through a window. His face goes tight. I step close, looking out too. Flashes pop bright outside. Cameras. Yelling voices. A crowd swarms his mansion, all hungry for us. My stomach drops. That blurry photo hit fast. Too fast.

“We gotta go,” he says, grabbing my hand. His grip’s firm, warm. I nod, throat dry. He yanks me through the house, dodging big rooms and fancy stuff. My bare feet slap the floor. We hit the garage. His car’s there, sleek and black. We jump in. He starts it quick, engine roaring. The garage door creaks open. Lights blind us. Shouts get loud. “Ryan! Who’s the guy?” He floors it. Tires squeal. We burst out, swerving past them. My hands grip the seat, knuckles white. Cameras flash in my face. I duck low, heart racing.

“Where?” I ask, voice shaking. My chest’s tight, like I can’t breathe.

“Your place,” he says, eyes on the road. “They don’t know it.” I nod fast. My tiny apartment. Cracked walls. Lumpy couch. Safe. We speed through L.A., lights blurring by. My leg bounces. He reaches over, squeezing my knee. “We’re good,” he says, soft. My heart slows a little. I believe him.

We pull up to my building. It’s old, falling apart. Home. No cameras here. Yet. We sneak out, hoods up, heads down. My keys jingle loud as I unlock the door. We slip inside. I lock it fast, leaning on it. My breath comes out hard. Ryan’s next to me, panting too. “Safe,” he says, grinning small. I laugh, shaky and relieved. My hands stop trembling.

It’s late now. Quiet. My place smells like old pizza and me. The walls are cracked, paint peeling. Couch sags in the middle. It’s small, messy, but it’s ours tonight. Ryan kicks off his shoes, peeling off his shirt. “Hot in here,” he says, tossing it. His chest glows under the dim lamp, all muscle and tan. My mouth goes dry. I pull my shirt off too, dropping it. We’re shirtless, free. My skin’s still sweaty from the run.

“Food?” I ask, heading to the kitchen. It’s tiny, barely a corner. He follows, close behind. I grab flour, some eggs. “Pancakes?” He nods, leaning on the counter. “Yeah. Cook with me.” His voice is low, playful. My stomach flips. We mix stuff, clumsy and laughing. Flour puffs up, dusting his abs. White on tan. I stare too long. He catches me, smirking. “Like that?” he teases.

“Yeah,” I say, stepping close. My hand brushes his stomach, feeling hard muscle. I lean in, slow, and lick the flour off. My tongue drags soft, tasting him. Salty. Sweet. He groans loud, head tipping back. “You’re killing me,” he says, voice rough. His hands grab my hips, pulling me tight. Heat blooms where we touch. My shorts feel tight. I lick again, slower, teasing. His abs flex under my mouth. He’s shaking a little.

It flips fast. He spins me, bending me over the counter. My chest hits the edge, cold and hard. He yanks my shorts down, quick. They pool at my feet. I’m bare, open. His hands grip my hips, bruising tight. “Ryan,” I gasp, needy. He’s behind me, boxers gone. I feel him, hard and hot, pressing close. “Want you,” he says, low and fast. I nod, pushing back. He grabs lube from his pocket—sneaky guy—and slicks up. His fingers slide in first, quick, stretching me. I moan loud, gripping the counter.

Then he’s in. One thrust, fast and deep. I cry out, sharp and good. He moves quick, dirty, hips slamming mine. Skin slaps loud, echoing in my tiny kitchen. My legs shake bad. His hands hold me up, strong. “Cody,” he grunts, breathless. I laugh, gasping through it. “Harder,” I say, voice breaking. He does. Thrusts get wild, messy. The counter digs into my stomach. Flour sticks to my chest. We’re loud, laughing, falling apart. I come fast, spilling on the floor, moaning his name. He follows, shuddering hard, groaning deep. Warm inside me.

We collapse on the couch after, sweaty and tangled. My legs flop over his. He’s humming soft, some tune I don’t know. His head rests on my chest, ear to my heartbeat. It’s fast still, slowing down. My fingers twist in his hair, damp and soft. “We’re a mess,” I say, giggling quiet. My voice is hoarse.

“Best mess,” he says, kissing my chest quick. His lips linger, warm. My heart swells up, too big. I trace his jaw, feeling stubble. He catches my hand, kissing my knuckles slow. “We’ll keep this ours,” he murmurs, eyes on mine. They’re dark, steady.

“Ours,” I say back, nodding. My finger brushes his lips, soft and swollen. He nips it, playful. I laugh, pulling him closer. The world’s outside—cameras, yelling, that photo—but here it’s us. Raw. Messy. Home. My couch creaks under us. My head rests on his shoulder. His arm wraps around me, heavy and safe. I breathe him in, sweat and flour and him. My eyes get heavy. His do too.

We stay quiet, just holding on. My hand rests on his stomach, feeling it rise and fall. His fingers trace my arm, slow and light. “You’re good,” he says, voice sleepy. I smile, warm all over. “You too,” I say, soft. My nose presses his neck. He hums again, low and happy. I could stay like this forever. Just us. No one else.

Then his phone buzzes. Sharp. Loud. On the floor by the couch. I jump a little, eyes snapping open. He groans, reaching down slow. “Not again,” I mumble, clinging to him. He grabs it, squinting. His face changes. Tightens up. My stomach twists hard. “Who?” I ask, voice small.

He turns the screen. A name glows. Tara. My heart drops. His ex-friend. The one who hates me. It keeps buzzing, angry and fast.