when the sun came up

xiv.

When they stopped by the loft, no-one was home. Ethan was likely out with the boys, or perhaps bartending. Emma shimmied into the tight red dress Olivia had forced her into buying the other weekend ("you've got boobs, Emma Chamberlain, and great ones at that! For once in your life, use them!") while she turned on appropriate pre-gaming music and mixed a colourful variety of drinks in the kitchen with Grayson.

They headed out to The Tubered that night, a bar turned nightclub near campus that played great music to dance to, but was unfortunately packed wall to wall with underclassmen. Luckily, being a hot ass group of friends, they didn't have a problem finding spaces on the dance floor or at the bar when they needed to top up their drinks. Emma was a sweaty mess by the end of the night, but it was worth it. She hadn't had a good night out in ages, with her ever-increasing workload this year, and Gray and Liv were not only her best friends, but the kind of friends who were always fun to go out with – endlessly energetic, hilarious dancers, and thankfully never once to be found bawling their eyes out in the bathroom after one too many G&Ts.

She got a taxi home that night, kissing her best friends goodbye outside the bar and almost falling asleep in the backseat of her cab. It was late when she got into the loft and she hadn't expected Ethan to be up, so she was mildly surprised when she wandered into the kitchen to find him rummaging around in the fridge, wearing sweatpants and not much else.

"Hey, stranger," she drawled slowly, before suppressing a wince. Had that been as seductive as it had sounded? But she'd been screaming along to Taylor Swift and Rihanna lyrics all night which had all but depleted her voice, so it was no wonder she sounded (unintentionally) husky.

If Ethan noticed, he didn't say anything; simply turned his head over his bare shoulder to smirk very slightly at her. "Cinderella back from the ball, huh?"

"Mm, something like that," she murmured, propping herself against the kitchen counter for balance as she leaned down to slide off her heels.

When she straightened up, Ethan was still looking at her, but he turned his head away when she caught his gaze.

"Want something to eat?"

At that, Emma almost moaned. She had barely eaten anything all night, excepting a few canapés at the party, and though she'd been able to ignore it when she was dancing, her stomach was now growling painfully.

"That would be amazing," she said, hopping onto the counter as Ethan began to pile ingredients next to the stove. Emma had always found something very soothing about watching him prepare and cook meals; not only was he good with food, but he had a kind of surety about his movements in the kitchen that was oddly appealing.

And sexy.

No, not sexy, Emma backpedalled quickly. Not sexy at all, just... interesting.

She cleared her throat, casting about for a distraction from her troubling thoughts. "What are you making?

He sighed in mock-exasperation, his back to her as he started measuring something in a bowl. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?"

Emma stuck her tongue out at him, taking childish delight in the fact that he couldn't see her to retaliate. "Never thought you'd be one to pedal clichés, Dolan."

He laughed. "Dolan? What are we, characters from Grease? Sorry, princess, it's not quite gonna cut it."

Emma rolled her eyes, choosing not to reply. She figured that she'd probably only goad him into saying something even more irritating, as was her apparent forte.

A companionable silence fell, as Ethan turned on the stove and continued pouring and stirring, and Emma nursed a much-needed glass of ice cold water. She found herself idly admiring the strong curve of his back, the interplay of hard muscles and shoulder blades shifting constantly underneath that smooth skin as he navigated his way around the kitchen. It was mesmerising.

She must have fallen into a kind of wakeful doze, because the next thing Emma knew, she'd startled into awareness when Ethan turned around to place her meal and cutlery on her lap.

"Bon appetit."

Emma looked down at her plate. She could feel herself starting to smile, though she tried to hold it back.

"You made me pancakes? Blueberry pancakes?"

He eyed her, leaning against the counter next to her with his own stack in hand. "Yeah. You usually like them. What's wrong with it now?"

Emma shook her head, recalling what she'd been thinking in the car earlier that night, the smile still lingering on her face. "Nothing," she said, starting to dig in without sparing him a second glance.

The pancakes were unbelievably delicious. Emma practically inhaled her stack, the sugar sustenance working to alleviate some of the fuzziness in her head. She should have remembered that drinking with Gray was always a dangerous exercise. The man seemed to have no limits when it came to alcohol, and expected – demanded, really – that everyone else had the same tolerance.

She slid down from the counter to rinse her plate and put it in the dishwasher, leaning down to slot it into an available space before straightening back up – only to catch the tail end of Ethan's fleeting gaze once again.

Emma frowned slightly, pausing to study him out of the corner of her eye for a second. Seriously, what was with all the staring?

Is he...? No. Is he actually checking me out?