Thio traces the shell of my ear. “Don’t factor me in,” he says.
I rock my head toward him, reactions muffled, delayed.
“If worrying about me is what ends up holding you back in any lawsuit,” he expands. “Don’t factor me in.”
I sit up so I can see him better. Exhaustion is dominating my movements now, each blink too slow, reality blurring at the edges.
But his meaning hits me with a jolt of worry. “You don’t want to be a factor?”
Thio runs his thumb along my chin. His expression is hardened, like he can see a resolution coming, and it’s inevitable.
“I’m saying if your only holdup is me, don’t let it be. I don’t care what fallout would come from my family—you have the chance to do something. To stand up against them, to stand upfor yourself. Few people get that chance.” He inhales sharply, exhales long and resigned. “It would break my heart if you held back from that because of me.”
I lean into his hand. “I’d wait until after you graduated. Until you got a job, and were secure. I wouldn’t—it wouldn’t be anytime soon.”
“Are you considering it, then?” His tone is tentative. Unsure. Hopeful?
Yes. No. I don’t know.
My dad believes me.
An ache thuds across my head and I wince.
“Distract me. Please. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
Thio’s demeanor changes. Shifts to the situation, to what I need.
He’s always doing that, adapting to me like a chameleon, and I should feel guilty for how often he slips into that role. But right now, I’m choking, and he’s turning into air for me.
He tugs on the collar of my shirt. “We could talk about how I just met your parents.”
A weak smile pulls over my mouth. “Yeah. Well. I met your mom before we were even dating, so.”
“And you introduced me as your boyfriend.”
Thio’s pupils dilate, and my face warms.
“You liked that, huh?” I ask, raspy.
He nods, possession intensifying in his gaze, in the set of his shoulders.
I try to lean into him. To kiss him, or crawl into his lap. To utter a bunch of mushy bullshit that’d make sayingmy boy friendsound dull by comparison.
But all I do is teeter, and then he’s bringing my head to his lips and pressing kisses to my eyelids.
“Now, I’m taking my boyfriend to bed,” he tells me. “And we’re going to sleep.”
“That’s not fun.”
“I dunno. Falling asleep with you in my arms?” He peels me off the couch; everything’s half dream already. “Sounds like the perfect end of the night to me.”
For two people who built a relationship on screaming at each other, Thio’s good at saying things I can’t argue with.
Chapter Seventeen
It’s dark when I wake up.
The clock on my nightstand is blurry without my glasses, but I barely make out that it’s after two in the morning. Which explains the groggy pressure weighing down my limbs, and I roll onto my back, sluggish, thoughts held at bay by the in-between of being only half awake.
