When at last she collapses against me, breathing hard, I pull her close and kiss her temple, stroking her hair. She falls asleep still trembling in my arms, her skin damp with sweat and her lips swollen from my kisses.
I stay awake, holding her tighter, the scent of her clinging to me, to the sheets, to everything I am.
Now the bed knows her in the most intimate way. My body knows hers. Her body knows mine. And I never want to forget a single second of this. The whole room’s filled with her scent, and I couldn’t ask for anything more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Nova Marshall
PAST (2018)
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"I can communicate far better on a
guitar than I can through my mouth."
Jimmy Page
Vincent groans and buries his head beneath a pillow while I bounce on his bed. My new alarm clock blares, playing an old Brazilian song on repeat.
“Can you explain why your alarm is some seven–year–old Brazilian track?” he mutters from under the pillow.
He grabs me by the hem of the shirt I’m wearing—his shirt—and pulls me down on top of him, flat against the sheets. I burst into laughter, tugging the pillow away to reveal his messy hair and sleep–creased face. I brush his hair aside, grinning.
“Don’t you like it?” I whisper, sliding under the sheets beside him.
His eyes stay shut as he pulls me into his arms, pressing lazy kisses along my neck. “It just reminds me of when you used tocome back from summer camp and force me to learn all the group dances they taught you. Are we sure this song isn’t secretly insulting us—or saying porn stuff?”
I snort. “I have no idea. Honestly? Entirely possible.”
I sit up and grab his hands, tugging until he groans and sits with me, still half–asleep, leaning against the wall behind his bed.
“What exactly are we doing?” he asks, rubbing his eyes. “We could still be asleep. Or making out. Or just cuddling while listening to music. Please.”
I laugh. “We’re dancing. Do you remember the choreography?”
He sighs, but nods, stepping onto the mattress beside me. The song restarts, and we move in sync, the old steps flooding back like muscle memory. Somehow, he’s still better at it than me. He goes from nailing the moves to collapsing in laughter, teasing me until I can’t stop grinning.
After what happened between us the night of the party, everything feels different. More intimate.
Vincent has always been the person I trusted most in the world, but now it’s like my whole body belongs to that trust. Two weeks have passed, two weeks of barely being apart.
With summer here, Grandma has been taking Asher overnight, which makes it easier to slip away and stay with Vincent without feeling guilty.
Still, Asher has started complaining that I never play with him anymore, that Vincent’s stealing me away. I don’t understand it—he’s always adored Vincent. He was the one who begged me to invite him over. The same little brother who used to fall asleep in Vincent’s lap while he played lullabies, who’d squeeze himself between us during Just Dance nights, who laughed while Vincent twirled him around the room. He’sthe same kid who used to doodle all over Vincent’s hands with marker.
I always loved their bond. And now... I don’t know. Maybe it’s Dad’s absence twisting things inside him, making him feel abandoned by me too. Sometimes I wonder why I’m carrying the weight of this entire family on my shoulders.
And sometimes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I wish I could run away. Leave it all behind. Start over somewhere new, find the peace I only ever feel with Vincent.
My father’s either working or gone, always coming home late with expensive gifts, trying to buy our forgiveness. I don’t know how Chris and Daniel can call him a friend, or how I ever looked at him as my hero. And Mom... she sleeps, until she wakes just long enough to scold me for sneaking out. Her words slip right through me now. None of it matters when I’m with Vincent. He’s the only one who makes me feel safe, the only one who takes care of me, and when I think about how he touched me that night, my skin still burns.
We’ve tried to do something these past weeks, but we’ve never had the chance to go further. His parents are almost always home, and neither of us wants to risk being overheard. So we steal what we can—kisses in hallways, hands brushing in secret, hiding places where we won’t get caught. We haven’t labeled what this is, but maybe that’s the point. It’s ours. It’s new. And I just want to live in it before the world asks questions.
He twirls me on the bed, and we’re still laughing when the bedroom door creaks open. His parents and Aunt Evelyn shuffle in, hair messy, still in pajamas, blinking at us like we’re some rare species on display.
“What the fu—don’t even tell us,” Evelyn mutters, stifling a laugh.
