˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ
❝Golden on the surface, hollow underneath.❞
gilded
verb
cover thinly with gold.
˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ
i'm so hungry
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𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . . chapter sixteen
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⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎... ⋙
" between the lines "
︑︒⚬∙︓·⠄
"You're back," Daniel remarks, his voice thick with that familiar, cocky edge. It's the kind of tone that makes me want to roll my eyes straight out of my skull.
He's leaning against the doorframe like he's the king of this place, that same lazy smirk curling at the corner of his lips. His eyes are locked on mine, and I'm looking way up—thanks to the ridiculous oversized shirt I'm wearing.
Seriously, it might as well have come with a matching sleeping bag, but I'm too tired to care. My shorts are barely visible, practically swallowed by the sea of fabric.
"Only because I would've felt bad for you if I didn't come back," I offer, my voice flat but with just the right amount of bite to make it sound casual. Daniel, of course, isn't buying it for a second.
"Uh-huh 'Jersey," he says, the smirk deepening, as if he's got me all figured out. His tone is a little too smug for my taste, and I almost consider telling him off for it, but I hold my tongue. "Like I'll believe that."
I raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a little too good about myself right now. "Where's all this confidence coming from, huh?"
Without missing a beat, Daniel shrugs—effortlessly. He steps aside, motioning for me to enter, and I take a slow, deliberate step forward. My eyes drift over his apartment as I make my way past him.
The fridge catches my attention, and I head straight for it. When I yank open the door, I'm honestly surprised to find juice—actual juice—in there. I'd half expected the inside of his fridge to be a sad, forgotten graveyard of take-out boxes and expired condiments.
"Yeah, you can snoop in my fridge," Daniel calls from behind me, his voice floating into the kitchen, a little too casual, like he's just given me the green light to take his life savings or something.
"Thanks," I reply with a wink, as if I'm stealing treasure, and I pour myself a glass. After downing a sip, I wander toward his room, my eyes scanning the space as I make my way there.
I've never been inside before.
"Yeah, I give you permission to snoop through my room." His voice is almost daring, like he's waiting for me to judge him.
"Thanks," I throw back over my shoulder as I take my first step inside. His room is... well, it's exactly what you'd expect from a guy like him.
A little messy but in the way that suggests he's too busy to care. Posters with frayed edges, the faint smell of cologne mingling with old sheets. It's almost cozy. Comfortably lived-in. And for some reason, that makes me feel oddly—invited.
I make a beeline for the bed. It's like something out of a teen movie—a bed just waiting for some dramatic sit-down conversation.
I sit, the mattress giving a loud creak in protest as I settle down, feeling the weight of the moment in the air. And then Daniel follows me in, and the bed shifts beneath him as he sits down next to me, the springs groaning under the pressure. The whole thing is oddly... intimate.
"Wait—I'm allowed to drink in here, right?" I ask, a little more unsure than I'd like to admit.
Maybe it's the way he's looking at me, or maybe it's the fact that I'm suddenly very aware of my own clumsy existence.
Daniel blinks at me, clearly a little confused. "Yeah, you are." His smile softens, a little surprised by my need for approval. It's almost endearing. Almost.
I sip the juice, but it's gone before I even realize it. Without thinking, I hand him the empty plastic cup. He grabs it with ease, his fingers brushing against mine in the process.
It's a fleeting touch, but it makes the air feel thick. For a second, I wonder if he notices, but then I shake the thought away.
"Well," he starts, shifting beside me, "let's play... spin the cup."
"Spin the cup?" I ask, my eyebrow arching in mock horror. "With just us? Yeah, no thanks—"
"Let me finish," he cuts me off, his tone sharper now, not in anger, but in that challenge I know too well. The one where he dares me to say something stupid. And, naturally, I take the bait.
I place my hand over my heart, feigning innocence. "Okay, okay, go ahead. Tell me your genius plan."
A glint of mischief lights up his eyes as he leans in slightly. "Let's play spin the cup—but with a twist. Instead of kissing, we tell each other something embarrassing."
I pause. Blink. Stare. "Well, what's the point of spinning the cup, then? We're just going to take turns embarrassing ourselves anyway."
"Okay, game over," he says, his tone deadpan as he throws up his hands in mock exasperation.
"No, no! Wait—I'm sorry!" I scramble to backtrack. "I'll play. It's a good idea. Promise. I'm in."
He shoots me a quick, almost amused look, before sitting beside me. The bed dips under his weight, and I feel the warmth of his body just inches from mine. There's a second of stillness—uncomfortably quiet—before he picks up the cup and spins it with purpose. It turns lazily, mocking the tension between us, until it finally comes to a stop, landing squarely on me. Of course.
"Go ahead, Jersey," Daniel says, and the way he says it, with that cheeky grin, makes me feel like I'm about to be roasted alive.
I groan dramatically, huffing out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Stop calling me that." I roll my eyes, trying to appear unaffected, but inside, I'm already panicking about what I'm about to say.
Embarrassing stories are my least favorite thing in the world. I start running through them in my head—there's the one about the time I tripped over a rock in front of an entire crowd at a track meet, or the one where I couldn't figure out how to work a blender at a friend's house and ended up wearing half the smoothie.
Finally, I settle on one. "Okay, I was at a party once, right? Trying to look all smooth and cool, and I ended up knocking over a whole punch bowl. Like, a full punch bowl. I could've sworn it was a sign of the universe telling me to never dance in public again. So, naturally, I just walked out of the room like nothing happened."
Daniel's jaw drops, eyes wide with surprise as a grin spreads across his face. His hand instinctively covers his mouth, but it's not enough to stop the laughter bubbling out. "You're such a dumbass," he says, shaking his head with an amused smile.
I shrug, feigning indifference, but I can feel my face getting warm. "Shut up. Your turn."
I grab the cup and flip it toward him, my fingers trembling slightly.
Daniel takes a moment, like he's picking out a story from the vault of his past. When he finally speaks, it's with an unexpected sincerity. "When I was younger, I thought I could pull off a mullet. It didn't work. And to this day, I regret it."
I blink, unable to process. "How much younger?" I ask, leaning forward, practically on the edge of the bed. This is gold.
"Like two... three years ago," he says, and I can practically see the mental cringe happening. I burst into laughter, unable to contain it, picturing him with a mullet. It's ridiculous—and yet, I can't stop laughing.
We spent the next couple of hours talking, playing the game, laughing, and getting to know each other. It felt strangely comfortable, like a layer of tension I didn't even realize I'd been carrying had slowly started to dissipate.
I guess I could thank that Dorito for this.
It was getting late. I glanced at the clock, knowing I'd have to leave soon, but there was just one more question that had been gnawing at me. I was sitting on Daniel's bed, one leg tucked beneath me, while he sat on the floor in front of me, leaning back in a relaxed position.
In fact, he was practically sitting right between my legs, but I didn't mind it—mostly because my focus was somewhere else.
Somehow, we'd found ourselves here. I'd asked if I could play with his hair again—he'd let me—and now my fingers were buried in it, massaging it, tugging at the soft strands. It was ridiculous how good it felt to have him so... relaxed. Daniel LaRusso, Mr. Karate, always with the edge, now soft and pliant under my touch.
It was like I was seeing a whole new side of him. His breathing was steady, and I found myself getting lost in it, in the way he smelled like soap and something else I couldn't quite place. I didn't want to think about how much I liked the scent of him.
"I have another question," I say, breaking the quiet hum of the room. Daniel makes a soft, barely audible sound in response, lost in relaxation.
His eyes are closed, and his head is tilted slightly back, exposing the smooth curve of his neck.
I can't help but notice how close we are. My thumb brushes his forehead, grazing his skin just a bit, and for some reason, my breath catches in my throat. But I force it down. Keep it cool, Y/N.
"Ali told me that you guys aren't a... thing anymore. Is that true?" The question feels a little too casual coming from me, but it's out now, and I wait, tapping my fingers absentmindedly on his scalp as I try not to stare at the mess of his hair that I'm somehow responsible for.
He pauses. It's subtle, but I feel the shift in him. Like I'd asked the wrong question. His eyes flutter open briefly, just enough for me to catch the fleeting flicker of something behind his gaze.
"Yeah, it's true," he answers softly, his voice laced with the exhaustion of a long day, his face still relaxed, yet something shifts in his posture. He seems far away, even though he's right there in front of me. "Right there, please," he mutters, pointing to a spot in his hair.
I follow his direction, brushing my fingers through the strands. His low, barely audible groan of relief doesn't escape me. It's so soft, almost imperceptible, but it does something to me—something I can't explain. I shift on the bed, trying to stay focused, not let my mind wander to places it shouldn't go.
"She told me it was because of another girl. Is that true?" I ask, even though the words feel a little heavy coming out of my mouth.
Again, he pauses. This time, it's longer. He doesn't answer right away, and I can feel him tense, just slightly. But then his voice is quiet, dismissive. "No, it's not."
His words hang in the air, but he doesn't seem to be in a hurry to elaborate. Instead, he leans his head back against my legs, and his body brushes up against the space between my legs—just enough to make my heart beat a little faster.
I quickly scoot back, my breath catching at the sudden proximity. His head falls against my legs again, and I quickly reposition myself, my pulse a little too loud in my ears.
Daniel doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he's too tired to care. He's looking up at me now, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
"So," I push forward, trying to get past the strange feeling that's creeping up in me, "do you like anyone?"
He shakes his head slowly. "Even if I did, I wouldn't tell you," he mumbles, his voice low and rough, almost tired in its tone.
I tap his forehead lightly, but not enough to hurt. It's more of a playful gesture than anything, but he still winces a little. "Ow, what the hell was that for?" he asks, genuinely surprised.
"For being a dick," I say, trying to sound offended, but then I catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes—so wide and doe-like—have me losing any semblance of annoyance. "I thought we were friends."
His gaze softens, and he leans back a little further, turning his head just enough so our eyes meet. "No, no, we are, Y/N."
I bite my lip, thinking about his words. For some reason, it feels different now—like there's this unspoken truth between us that neither of us is really acknowledging.
"Do you like anyone?" I ask again, but this time, my voice is quieter, almost like I'm afraid of the answer.
"No," he says again, almost too quickly, like he's trying to convince both of us. I nod, pretending to buy it as I move my hands back into his hair, giving it another soft tug.
The room feels warmer now, quieter. And I realize with a jolt that I'm going to have to leave soon. The night is settling in, and I can hear the distant hum of traffic outside, the faint sound of the city even at this hour.
I shift, trying to get comfortable again, but I accidentally nudge his head with my knee, the movement too close to where he's resting. My heart skips a beat, but I do my best to ignore it.
"Hey," he murmurs, still barely awake, his voice rougher now. "Where are you going?" His eyes flutter open just enough to see me getting up from the bed, his expression confused.
"Home," I say, my voice softer than I mean for it to be. "It's getting late. And we have school tomorrow, remember?"
He doesn't respond right away. Instead, his lips part, and he gazes up at me with those tired eyes, his expression like he's still trying to figure out if I'm serious. But then, without warning, he mumbles, "Stay."
I freeze. His voice is so low, barely a whisper, and I'm almost convinced he didn't say it out loud. But there it is again—so quiet, but clear enough for me to hear: "Stay."
I shake my head, already feeling the pull of home, of the normalcy waiting for me outside his door. "I can't. My mom will freak."
I feel the shift in him as he collapses onto his bed, the soft thud of his body hitting the mattress. His eyes are already closing, his words coming slower now. "Okay," he murmurs, the exhaustion finally catching up with him. He's out cold in an instant.
I stay frozen for a moment, my heart suddenly full for reasons I can't explain. I stare at him for a moment, his messy hair, his soft lips, the way he looks so peaceful now. But I force myself to turn away, pulling the door shut behind me as I leave.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I'll figure out why the hell my chest feels like this.