never have I ever...

"I wasn't trying to defend your honor," he insists, because he wasn't. He knows she's not some damsel in distress, that she doesn't need to be saved - especially not by him. He's no knight in shining armor - no, that would be Paxton, carrying her to safety after the coyote attack, or pulling her out of the pool and driving her home, waterlogged dress replaced by varsity sweats and hoodie.

Ben's no hero. Never has been, never will be.

But - despite the chasm that grew between them after that ill-advised night last May - he's still her friend, and he still loves her, and so he stepped in.

And now he has a black eye and a raging headache as a result, so maybe he'll leave the punches to be thrown by someone else next time.

"Well, good, because you're really bad at it," she jokes, leaning back against the bathtub and stretching her legs out in front of her. She knocks a socked foot against his thigh, and he tries not to lean into the touch.

"You looked scared," he murmurs, gaze dragging down to his crossed ankles, then back up at her. "When he- he had his arms around you. You looked scared."

She pulls her knees to her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. Defensive, he thinks.

"I was," she admits quietly. "So, you know, thank you. For showing up when you did."

"I wish I had gotten there sooner," he says. "Not that you can't handle yourself or anything, but guys like that-"

"I know," she interrupts, a small smile appearing on her face. He wants to kiss it.

A silence lapses over them, in reality just a few moments long, but to Ben it lasts an eternity, her soft brown eyes looking at him in a way he would describe as fond, if he so dared.

"You wanna get off the floor?" she finally asks, head cocked to the side. He nods, and she stands, reaching a hand down to him and pulling him up. "Come on."

She leads him out of the bathroom and into the main area of her hotel room. He half expects Eleanor to have come back by now, but the room is just as empty as it was when they came back from the bar.

"Eleanor's crashing with Fab and Aneesa tonight," Devi explains, nodding to the empty bed on the far side of the room. "So you can stay here if you want. Or not, if you don't want."

He should leave, go back to his own room, let himself fall asleep to the droning sound of Trent's snores. He shouldn't tempt himself with this, this peek back into normalcy, or at least as normal as he and Devi ever were, a year ago, when, if asked who his best friend was, he could confidently say, "Devi Vishwakumar," and pretend that he didn't still hold a flame in his heart for her.

Now, neither of those things are true. The most they've spoken in months has been reduced to debate club strategies and the rare request to borrow a pencil, and each time, he knows what's blatantly written across his face: I miss you. I miss us. I miss what we never were. I love you, still, and I don't know how to stop. I'm sorry.

He hopes he's harder to read with a swollen eye and a bundle of ice covering half of his face.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Thanks," he stumbles, perching himself at the edge of one bed while Devi digs in the suitcase laid at the foot of hers.

"Can you turn around for a second?" she asks, holding up a set of pajamas.

He nods, then faces away from her. The silence that fell while they were in the bathroom had been comfortable, breathable, but now it feels awkward and tense, the only sounds being the rustle of clothes and the hum of the air conditioner.

As she changes, he tries not to think about how he knows what she looks like undressed.

"Okay, you're good," she says. He twists back around, finding her closer than she was before. "Here." Her voice is gentle, and so is her hand as she reaches toward his face. He lets her remove the ice pack, his hands now clasped in his lap.

She's- she's so close, practically standing between his legs. She's got his chin tucked between her index and thumb, directing his face so she can better survey the damage, and he hisses as she gently presses at his cheekbone with her other hand.

"Sorry," she apologizes, stepping away. He itches to pull her back. A past version of himself would have.

But he's not that Ben anymore, and she's not that Devi, and so he keeps his hands folded in his lap. He watches as she grabs the hand towel, now soaked through with melted ice, from where she had placed it on the nightstand separating the two beds and disappears into the bathroom.

"Do you need more ice?" she calls.

"No, I'm good," he says. In truth, he probably could use more, just to keep some of the swelling down, but he can only handle Devi doting on him so much in one night. "Thanks, though," he adds.

"Mm-hmm," she hums, and a few moments later, she marches back into the room with a small white tube in her hand. "It's arnica cream. Close your eyes."

"You take that with you everywhere you go?"

"Eleanor bruises like a peach. Now close your eyes." She sits down next to him, then uncaps the tube and squeezes a dollop onto her fingertips. He complies, eyes fluttering shut just as she reaches her hand towards his cheek again. Her touch is firmer than before, and he clenches his jaw as she rubs the cream into his tender skin. “Sorry, sorry. Almost done.” He feels her fingers drift higher, towards his brow bone, too gentle to be filed under the pretense of caring for his wound. “There you go,” she whispers, the warmth of her hand now replaced by cold, empty air.

He blinks his eyes open. Devi is still next to him, still just as close, still just as out of reach. She looks- soft, he thinks, bathed in the dim light of the lamp. 

He still wants to kiss her.

Instead, he busies his mouth with a quiet, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” she promises, and he knows she means it.

He wants to kiss her.

He wants to kiss her.

He wants to ki-

She kisses him.

At first, she presses her lips to his delicately, like he’s something fragile. He is, he supposes, at least right now, with a fresh bruise blooming across the right side of his face. She's kissing him with a softness that borders on hesitancy, and it brings him back to salt-scented air and the choking call of seagulls - to a lifetime ago, it feels like, back when he first thought there was something beautiful blossoming between them.

She's already pulling away by the time he cups a hand around the back of her neck, nudging his nose against her cheek. He tugs her back, gentle, gentle, and slides his lips against hers again, and again, and again. The ache in his cheek grows, but he ignores it, dampens it with the feel of her hair in his hands and the taste of her tongue against his.

It's good, it's so good, better than what his memory replays on the nights he spends thinking of her, remembering the warmth of her skin on his.

His mind flits back to that night, to the look on her face when he opened his door, to the way his hand fit at the curve of her waist like a puzzle piece. To the way they moved together, clumsy at first, and the moans that fell from her mouth as she fell apart on his fingers.

Then his memory fast-forwards, to her running away, right when he had a confession perched on the tip of his tongue.

He's the first to pull away this time, a question forming in the back of his throat, because he has to know, needs to know.

"Is this-" he starts, before she cuts him off. 

“We’ll talk in the morning,” she tells him. “Just- keep kissing me.”