“I don’t think you ever could.”
“What do we do now?” he asks. “I mean, after we sleep the day away.”
Declan stretches out and pulls the blankets up to our waist. He rolls onto his side and takes my arm with him, wrapping himself up in me the way he did the morning before.
“Everything we want.”
I hate that bar
“How did you get out of, like, the draft and stuff?” Declan looks at me with inquisitive eyes and draws a heart in the center of my chest. “A bit of trickery and some run of the mill manipulation.”
“What was your favorite time to be alive?”
I snort and he smacks my chest.
“You know what I mean.” He draws another heart.
I’ve done a lot of thinking about this exact question over the past week, and the answer is always the same. “Right now.”
Declan shoves up onto his elbows and rolls his eyes at me. “I mean before you met me.”
“You added the qualifier after the fact,” I remind him.
“Consider it added, then.” He relaxes back into the crook of my arm.
"I really enjoyed the twenties, honestly.”
“Wasn’t that Prohibition?”
“Well, yeah. I couldn’t drink anyway, but the speakeasies were so much fun. Everything felt so wild and free then. It was a fun time. Aside from that, I really enjoyed being in London during the Great Exhibition.”
“When was that?” Declan presses a kiss against my chest and nuzzles against me. I tighten my arm around him and pull him closer.
“1851. They built the Crystal Palace for it.”
“What was that like?”
“It was amazing. Huge and beautiful. I bet it would have been amazing to see in the sunlight.” I swallow, realizing that I was never able to truly appreciate the beauty of one of my favorite places because of being chained to the night.
“So, what do you do for fun now?”
“You saw it.” I shrug, trying to shake off my unexpected melancholy. “I go to clubs to dance. I go for walks. I read a lot of books. Late night movies. Sometimes, if I’m feeling particularly daring, I walk down the middle of the road with my eyes closed.”
“No, you don’t.”
I don’t correct him, because while I don’tanymore, I definitely have before.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door, and Declan inhales sharply. “Is it Henry?”
I nod. “Come in.”
Henry pushes the door open and makes what looks like an honest attempt to not let his eyes linger on the pale expanse of Declan’s back, which I appreciate.
“Mom and Dad want to talk to you,” he says instead of a greeting.
“Hello to you too, Henry.”
I sit up and stretch, and Declan stretches out next to me like a cat. The light casts shadows across his stomach, bouncing off the ridges and lines of his muscles and his ribs. A feral feeling growl builds in the back of my throat and I need to stand up and walk away from him to resist the urge to bury myself inside of him.
