There’s a beat of silence. Then, “What about prom?”
“Prom.” He’d left just a few months before. “My parents had just died, so… I didn’t go.”
“Birthdays? Any memorable ones?”
“All of them, I guess. My mom used to make pancakes with ridiculous toppings—said it made the day ‘taste adventurous.’ After breakfast, a treasure hunt around the house. Pizza for dinner. It was a whole thing.”
“Is that why you don’t enjoy celebrating now?”
The familiar prickle hits the backs of my eyes. “It’s hard to want a birthday when the people who made it magical aren’t around anymore.” I shove the thought away and breathe out. “Your turn. How was graduation?”
“Auditorium was packed, the choir sang off-key, and I couldn’t keep that cap on for the life of me.”
“I bet your dad was proud.”
“I guess.” He folds an arm behind his head. “He never said.”
Never? Teachers had bets on whether he’d even graduate. After everything, how could his dad have said nothing? “Well, I was. I remember thinking you’d do incredible things.”
He shifts a little closer, just enough for his pillow to brush mine. I face him, hands resting between us. His fingers graze mine, tracing slow circles and making my skin tingle.
He says softly, “The only incredible thing I want to do is be good.”
“Good?”
He pauses. “We’re just a blip in history, right? Here, then gone. I’d be happy if my life was unremarkable, except for the good I left behind.”
“That’s all you want?”
“Yep.” His smile softens. “Well, that and you.”
A flutter spins in my stomach. “I…” I steady myself. “I want a lot from life.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“I want kids. To travel. Maybe a summer house in the woods. And a home library—with a ladder that rolls.”
“Like inBeauty and the Beast?”
“Yes.” I focus on the blanket. “A whole wall of books and a ladder to swing from.”
“Can I be the Beast?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Only if you provide the library. And the castle.”
He chuckles, fingers slipping fully between mine. “Guess I’d better get to work.”
Sherlock stirs at our feet. “Rooo,” he protests, casting us a withering look from his blanket nest.
“Shit. Did your cat just tell us to shut up?”
“Afraid so.” I press a finger to my lips, stifling a laugh.
Rafael looks solemnly at him. “Sorry, Sherlock. We’ll keep it down.”
“Rooo…” The cat sighs and tucks his head back under the blanket.
Rafael gives my hand a small squeeze, and the thrill curls deeper. After a pause, he asks, “First concert?”
