The Jensen's house smells strongly of the same soap and linen that makes up Clay's scent, minus the faint accent of old leather. The familiarity of it soothes my nerves as I walk in the door.

"Ellie!" A squeaky, excited voice calls out from the kitchen.

Clay's face pops into the side of the door frame, his face sideways as he beams brightly at me. The soft sound of his socks tapping the floor makes me giggle. He trots over to me, his face full of happiness.

A streak of flour covers Clay's forehead and the front of his button-up shirt, covered by a floral apron. The words "Kiss the Chef" are written in a sprawling script that is almost impossible to decipher. His blue eyes shine in the contrast of the white flour, and his arms open wide to embrace me in a warm hug.

I squeak as he runs over to me and suddenly lifts me off the ground. Giggling, I bury my nose in his strong shoulder with my hands around his neck. He sways slightly and laughs in my ear before lowering me down gently.

"You're here!" He breathes happily. Clay separates from me and holds my shoulders at an arms-length away from him as his parents walk into the room.

"Hello, Isabelle," an exhausted, crackly voice sounds behind me. His mother has appeared from behind the doorframe, still dressed in her work clothes.

A quick look at her shows where he got the genetics from his height and his ocean blue eyes. She's pretty, but a weighty exhaustion has worn down her looks. Pale skin stretched across her forehead, wrinkled from years of furrowed eyebrows. Lines are starting to grow up her neck, giving her the appearance of sleepiness and anxiety.

Her exasperated face worries me, but she wraps me in a hug so tight that it catches me off guard.

I quickly adjust my sweater before meeting her questioning eyes. "Hello, Mrs. Jensen." My voice is steady, but much higher-pitched than normal.

Clay gives me a confused look at the sound of my voice. "Oh sweetie, just call me Lainie." She beams at me, her manner more pleasant than she looks.

I open my mouth to answer just as Matthew Jensen walks in the door. His entire vibe is like the favorite teacher, donning a plaid sweater vest and corduroy pants.

"And who is this beautiful young lady?" Mr. Jensen asks me warmly.

"Hi, Mr. Jensen. I'm Isabelle Atkins," I say brightly. Reaching out a hand, I force my voice to lower to its normal pitch.

He smiles and waves me away. "I know who you are, just thought that's something a lot of dads say."

"That's just because it was the first thing that my father said to you, Matt," Lainie pipes up as she makes her way back into the kitchen.

"Of course," Mr. Jensen says softly, glancing at Clay who still has a wide grin plastered on his face.

Looking at Clay and back at his father, I smile at how similar they are in their manners. Both stand with hands in their pockets, beaming at me with identical smiles. Their shoulders are square with a quiet confidence and their feet are equal spaces apart.

Though his father's smile is tighter and older, each boy's grin is similar in the pure happiness it shows.

The sound of a text message goes off, and my eyes naturally dart down to the bright screen.

Clay abruptly claps his hands. The loud noise makes me jump in my skin and I drop my phone on the grey carpet.

Not noticing, Clay smiles wider and places his hands on his hips. "So Dad and I just finished dinner whenever you're ready." He looks affectionately at me and reaches for my hand, which I take gratefully after scooping my phone back off the floor.

"Awe, you kids," his dad jokes as he nudges Clay's shoulder.

My cheeks flush with a pink blush, not knowing what to say as he squeezes my hand lovingly.

Clay leads me into the kitchen, occasionally looking behind his shoulder to check on me. He's checking to see if I am nervous or scared, his eyes scanning my expression every few minutes.

I smile at him as his eyes light up playfully once he reads my relaxed body language. My heart warms with affection as he smiles back at me at the sight of my blushing face.

Pocketing my phone, I allow Clay to walk me into the busy kitchen just as his mother yells in shock. She thrusts her hand under running water, cursing under her breath about hot pans.

"You alright?" I let go of Clay's hand and run to her, eyeing a bright red burn on her manicured hand.

"I'm fine, dear, thank you," she says through gritted teeth. Looking back at Clay, I pause for a second to assess the situation before returning to his side after deciding it was alright to move.

Lainie leaves the room in a hurry, clutching her hand as Clay and his father stand awkwardly silent. I roll my eyes at the continued similarity.

Clay rubs the back of his neck anxiously. "I'll just finish what she was doing," he says suddenly, and his father jumps back into action at the sound of his sons loud voice.

Not sure what to do with myself, I fiddle with my hands as the two boys dart across the kitchen. I clench my jaw, reminding myself to stop playing with my hands so much. Shaking them out, I make myself useful and set the dining room table.

I place the last plate down and start to move to help with another task when a warm hand meets the small of my back. My eyes widen and I turn to see Clay's bright blue eyes leaning over my shoulder. A heartbeat pounds at my stomach as he presses deep into my spine, pretending to be looking at a plate.

He moves his hand away just as his mother walks back into the room. My face is as red as the burn on her hand, and I can feel the heat in my cheeks rising. I nervously fix my hair, laying it over the side of my neck.

I stand in the corner as Clay serves the dinner onto four plates, laughing with his father over some corny joke that I missed. We all sit down as the laughter subsides and hunger churns in my stomach.

"Does your family say grace, Isabelle?" Lainie asks, placing her napkin delicately on her lap.

"Um," I glance at Clay, "only sometimes. My father isn't as religious as he used to be."

I add the last sentence purposefully, watching her eyes take it into consideration. Dad had a reputation in the town for being overly religious and a bit of a Jesus freak, but it was based on a misunderstanding.

Mama wanted me in Sunday school, and there was a teacher there who hated me. She screamed at me for the littlest of mistakes every day, claiming that I had "dirty blood" for being half Latina, and shamed me in front of my entire class. My father had come down on her in a rage. He had told her that God would come down on her for judging his creations, and that she belonged in Hell for hating a child. At least twenty mothers were watching as he yelled at her, Clay's mother included.

"Well, I'm starving," Lainie says, smiling at me with understanding and reassurance at my worried face.

"Me too," I laugh softly, relaxing as the nervous knot in my stomach unfurls. Everyone digs into the food, meaningless chitchat beginning in multiple different conversations.

Clay and his mother are talking about his grades, he is attempting to defend himself about getting a low quiz grade. His voice is high-pitched as he tries his hardest to blame it on the teacher. She is silent, watching him babble with a raised eyebrow.

His father starts a conversation with me about my parents. I'm surprisingly confident and comfortable with talking to him, his soft and fatherlike manner relaxing my nerves.

"Are they home often?"

"Well, sort of. They're both kind of busy," I talk fast through a mouthful of spaghetti. "My Mom is a teacher in the next town over, and my Dad has his own construction business. He's basically retired at this point so, I mean, he's always home."

"That's good for him," Mr. Jensen always takes slightly annoying long pauses between sentences, a trait that I'm glad Clay does not share with him.

"Is there a lot of money in the construction industry?"

"I guess. It's a pretty successful company, but my family is humble about it," I shift nervously in my seat. "A lot of the money goes towards charities."

"Good to hear. Still, it must be nice to one of the richest families in town," he states slowly, watching me as he twirls his fork nonchalantly.

Clay's eyes drift over to me, his eyes scanning my tight shoulders and my connected hands, beginning to fiddle with themselves again. Understanding rises to the corner of his forehead, and I watch the scrunched wrinkles dissolve in comprehension.

"Dad." A steely protectiveness clouds over Clay's face that makes my heart beat wildly. "Don't start."

His voice is hard and his father shifts his eyes over to meet his, holding the eye contact as my hands fiddle together faster. Clay raises his eyes to Mr. Jensen's questioning look, and I dart my eyes in between their identical blue gaze.

I hate talking about my family's wealth. I used to flaunt it until Hannah's tapes came out, when she called me out for it. Sometimes I find myself still accidentally doing so by wearing expensive outfits, but shame fills me when someone points it out. My necklaces glitter with pricey stones, my hands are always manicured and decorated with jewelry, but a deep sense of insecurity clouds over the materialistic haze. Riches do not equal love.

"Um," my voice is quiet as I keep my eyes trained on my hands, "the dinner is really good."

"Thank you, Isabelle," Mr. Jensen replies, his prior confrontative tone disappearing as he grins up at me from across the table.

Clay looks back at my hands apprehensively, awaiting a full on freak out. Instead, the corners of his soft mouth turn up into a smile after seeing that my fingers have stopped fidgeting.

The rest of the dinner goes surprisingly smooth and without the disaster that I was anticipating.

Lainie's badgering questions are intercepted by Clay, who shoots them down with crafted answers. Mr. Jensen, inherently apologetic for his remark, tries his best to make the most of the dinner by talking about what he knows I like.

Apparently, Clay had told his father all about my obsession with Harry Potter, and he proceeded to ask me questions about the entire universe. ("And Ron, he's the one without a nose, right?). I let him sway the conversation, grateful and excited to being talking about the books, unable to stop after explaining the entire timeline for the next hour.

Clay smiled along with me, occasionally adding remarks of encouragement like "The best part" and "We should watch that one." I can't help but smile warmly as the conversation finally comes to a close, and the dinner chatter dies slowly.

I help wash the dishes and dissemble the intricately set table, keeping a bright smile on my face that I don't even have to force.

When they're done, Clay grabs my hand and yanks me up the stairs as I blurt rambling apologies to his parents.

He slams the door closed behind him, ignoring the angry cries of "What did we say about slamming your doors!" coming from downstairs.

With a quiet oomph, my body is thrown down to the soft bedframe. Without a second to even think, his lips are against mine.

A tiny gasp escapes me and Clay hesitates slightly, concerned. I quickly recover and bring my hands up to the back of his neck, signaling that I was okay with what is happening.

I fall back onto the comforter, determined to stay connected to him. Our lips separate for a brief second, creating a telltale sound that can only be associated with a kiss.

Clay smiles softly, and I feel a tiny laugh growing on his lips. My head leans back as hysterical giggles overcome me, and he throw his exasperated hands in the air jokingly, smacking them lightly on his knees. His playful, yet frustrated smile only makes me laugh harder, and I try to surprise it by holding a hand to my mouth.

"I'm sorry," I choke out through laughs, waving my hand in the air, "it was just so sudden."

"Shut up," his voice is quiet, full of suppressed laughter, so that I can barely hear him.

I don't have to, though, because he leans forward again to connect back to my lips as a silent message of forgiveness. My hands automatically move to the bottom of his shirt, and his nimble fingers slide down to their familiar spot at my waist.

The sky is already dark around us, as I lay smiling underneath him, and the stars bring a slight beam of light across the carpeted room. Clay's parents bustle with cleaning downstairs, the soft clinking of plates and murmured voices somehow contributing to the warmth surrounding us.

I wrap my hands tighter around his neck, unknowing as my phone explodes with notifications.

My mom is calling, but my phone is across the bedroom, discarded as my sweater is thrown over it. The knit fabric muffles the vibrations from her calls.

It's 9:20, Clay and I have only gotten started. She calls me over and over again, but tangled sheets and quick hands distract me from her frantic calls.

I forgot about the curfew.