Almost Love, Then Everything - Chapter 8: Chapter 8
You are reading Almost Love, Then Everything, Chapter 8: Chapter 8. Read more chapters of Almost Love, Then Everything.
("Some moments don’t ask permission. They just happen—and you never forget the silence right before.")
The next time Leah and Jade saw each other, it was raining again.
Not hard like last time—just a steady drizzle that painted the world in soft silver and hush. It made everything feel quieter. Or maybe it just made Leah feel like whispering.
Jade had invited her over this time. Her apartment was small, cozy, cluttered in the way that felt intentional—books stacked in uneven towers, mismatched mugs on open shelves, and candles that smelled like amber and old wood.
Leah liked it immediately. It smelled like warmth.
“Hope you like Thai,” Jade said, handing her a bowl of red curry and settling onto the couch beside her with casual ease.
“I’ll eat anything that isn’t instant noodles,” Leah joked, taking her seat close enough that their knees touched when they shifted.
Jade raised an eyebrow. “I feel like that’s a personal attack.”
Leah smirked. “I feel like I’ve seen your pantry.”
Jade gasped in mock offense. “Ma’am, I’ll have you know that ramen is an essential part of the artist survival diet.”
Leah laughed—really laughed—and Jade looked at her like she had been waiting for that sound all week.
They didn’t turn the TV on this time. No distractions.
Just music—low, acoustic, the kind that blended into the rain outside the window.
Their bowls sat on the coffee table half-eaten, forgotten.
Leah had her legs curled under her. Jade stretched out beside her, her arm draped over the back of the couch. Occasionally, her fingers brushed the top of Leah’s shoulder.
Not deliberately.
But not accidentally either.
They were talking about the dumbest things—like how ducks walk like small bureaucrats on a mission and how Leah once accidentally submitted a drawing of a frog instead of a human figure during an art critique.
“Wait, wait,” Jade said, laughing. “You submitted a frog to a life drawing class?”
“I panicked!” Leah was laughing too now, cheeks flushed, her voice higher with delight. “I couldn’t get the proportions right. The legs were weird. I erased it too many times and then I just… made it a frog.”
Jade was doubled over, head resting against Leah’s shoulder, laughter muffled into her sweatshirt. “That’s the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Shut up,” Leah grinned. “It got a B+.”
Their laughter faded slowly—Jade straightening, their shoulders still pressed together, faces flushed and breathless. Leah turned her head to say something else, something funny maybe, or maybe something real.
But Jade was already looking at her.
And this time, neither of them looked away.
The room felt very still. The kind of stillness that holds its breath.
Jade’s voice dropped to a murmur. “You have the kind of laugh that makes people want to stay.”
Leah blinked. “What?”
“I just—” Jade hesitated. Her hand brushed Leah’s cheek, thumb barely grazing the edge of her jaw. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”
Leah didn’t ask what.
She already knew.
So she leaned in first.
Or maybe they both did.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No fireworks. No swelling music. Just lips against lips, slow and uncertain and full of every moment they hadn’t said aloud. A kiss that didn’t need to prove anything—just confirm something that had already begun to grow.
Soft.
Tentative.
Then warmer. Deeper. Real.
Jade’s hand moved to Leah’s cheek, cradling it gently like she might dissolve if touched too hard. Leah’s fingers curled in the hem of Jade’s hoodie, grounding herself.
When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close—foreheads touching, breath mingling.
Jade whispered, “That okay?”
Leah nodded, eyes still closed. “Yeah. Yeah… I’ve been wanting to.”
Jade smiled. “Me too.”
The rain tapped softly at the windows.
And in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.
That night, Leah walked home in the rain without an umbrella.
Not because she forgot it—
But because she didn’t need one.
She felt warm all the way through.
The next time Leah and Jade saw each other, it was raining again.
Not hard like last time—just a steady drizzle that painted the world in soft silver and hush. It made everything feel quieter. Or maybe it just made Leah feel like whispering.
Jade had invited her over this time. Her apartment was small, cozy, cluttered in the way that felt intentional—books stacked in uneven towers, mismatched mugs on open shelves, and candles that smelled like amber and old wood.
Leah liked it immediately. It smelled like warmth.
“Hope you like Thai,” Jade said, handing her a bowl of red curry and settling onto the couch beside her with casual ease.
“I’ll eat anything that isn’t instant noodles,” Leah joked, taking her seat close enough that their knees touched when they shifted.
Jade raised an eyebrow. “I feel like that’s a personal attack.”
Leah smirked. “I feel like I’ve seen your pantry.”
Jade gasped in mock offense. “Ma’am, I’ll have you know that ramen is an essential part of the artist survival diet.”
Leah laughed—really laughed—and Jade looked at her like she had been waiting for that sound all week.
They didn’t turn the TV on this time. No distractions.
Just music—low, acoustic, the kind that blended into the rain outside the window.
Their bowls sat on the coffee table half-eaten, forgotten.
Leah had her legs curled under her. Jade stretched out beside her, her arm draped over the back of the couch. Occasionally, her fingers brushed the top of Leah’s shoulder.
Not deliberately.
But not accidentally either.
They were talking about the dumbest things—like how ducks walk like small bureaucrats on a mission and how Leah once accidentally submitted a drawing of a frog instead of a human figure during an art critique.
“Wait, wait,” Jade said, laughing. “You submitted a frog to a life drawing class?”
“I panicked!” Leah was laughing too now, cheeks flushed, her voice higher with delight. “I couldn’t get the proportions right. The legs were weird. I erased it too many times and then I just… made it a frog.”
Jade was doubled over, head resting against Leah’s shoulder, laughter muffled into her sweatshirt. “That’s the most unhinged thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Shut up,” Leah grinned. “It got a B+.”
Their laughter faded slowly—Jade straightening, their shoulders still pressed together, faces flushed and breathless. Leah turned her head to say something else, something funny maybe, or maybe something real.
But Jade was already looking at her.
And this time, neither of them looked away.
The room felt very still. The kind of stillness that holds its breath.
Jade’s voice dropped to a murmur. “You have the kind of laugh that makes people want to stay.”
Leah blinked. “What?”
“I just—” Jade hesitated. Her hand brushed Leah’s cheek, thumb barely grazing the edge of her jaw. “I’ve wanted to do this for a while.”
Leah didn’t ask what.
She already knew.
So she leaned in first.
Or maybe they both did.
It wasn’t dramatic.
No fireworks. No swelling music. Just lips against lips, slow and uncertain and full of every moment they hadn’t said aloud. A kiss that didn’t need to prove anything—just confirm something that had already begun to grow.
Soft.
Tentative.
Then warmer. Deeper. Real.
Jade’s hand moved to Leah’s cheek, cradling it gently like she might dissolve if touched too hard. Leah’s fingers curled in the hem of Jade’s hoodie, grounding herself.
When they finally pulled apart, they stayed close—foreheads touching, breath mingling.
Jade whispered, “That okay?”
Leah nodded, eyes still closed. “Yeah. Yeah… I’ve been wanting to.”
Jade smiled. “Me too.”
The rain tapped softly at the windows.
And in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.
That night, Leah walked home in the rain without an umbrella.
Not because she forgot it—
But because she didn’t need one.
She felt warm all the way through.
End of Almost Love, Then Everything Chapter 8. Continue reading Chapter 9 or return to Almost Love, Then Everything book page.