“I’ll be ready to bring our imaginations into reality.” We turn to face each other at the same time.
We smile at each other for a lingering moment, giddy for what’s to come before Warren shakes his head and opens his mouth to speak.
“I seriously almost died last night when you flashed me. Next time, you’ve gotta let me see you longer. Way longer.”
I sit up, look down over him and smile until he meets my gaze. He tilts his head up, resting a hand behind his neck. Smiling curiously—perhaps in reaction to the mischievous grin I wear as I drag the hem of his shirt between my thumb and fingers.
The shirt comes off over my head, and without slowing to feel embarrassed, I unclasp my bra, allowing it to fall forward onto the bed between us. He licks his lips before pushing them together so tightly they almost disappear. He parts them to speak but seems to struggle to find words.
“Fuck, wow.” He looks up to my eyes, his gleaming. He scrapes an open palm back and forth over his chin. “Damn.”
I nod and pull the shirt back down over my head, foregoing my bra.
“How is it that your body turns me into some horny teenager? I haven’t been this excited just to see breasts in a very long time.”
“Well, I consider them a particularly good pair,” I say.
“Hear, hear.” Warren lies back down, and I join him. We lie side by side in comfortable silence. Comfortable silence… a new concept for me, an enjoyable one too. I’m still learning though, so I break first.
“So…dove?” I ask.
“No, I’m Warren.” He turns to face me, grinning.
“Shut up… but really, why dove?”
“Well, I, um. You know how everyone at the shop has a nickname?”
I nod.
“Ram used to be calledBeast. Then he met his wife. He started calling her Belle because she saw him, under all the bad. He switched to Ram because he outgrew the nickname—he wasn’t a beast anymore, not with her around.” He shuffles the pillow under him and pauses before speaking again. “They call me War, which started out from a shortened version of my name, but stuck because of… you know.”
Warren hesitates, turning to the ceiling. “I’ve spent so much of my life being angry… Angry at my mom for dying. Angry at my dad for not sticking around. Angry at CPS for separating Luke and me. Angry at myself for fucking everything up. Angry at people who get to live normal lives… angry at pretty girls who make me question why I’m so grumpy all the time…” He turns to me, wearing a sincere expression. “A dove is a symbol of peace.” He reaches towards me, holding my cheek in his palm. “That’s what you are to me… peace.” Warren softly wipes a tear off my face with his thumb. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. Not at all. I just… I love you a lot.”
“So the nickname can stay?”
“Definitely.” I snuggle into him, breathing in his intoxicating scent once more—perhaps my bed will do, so long as he’s in it too. “But, Warren?”
“Yes?”
“You’re so much more than that nickname. With or without me, you’re not that guy.”
He presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“You might be right.” We nap alongside Willow, content as I have ever been.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Chloe!” Lane squeals, pulling me into a hug before the door is even fully open. “Whoa—so weird to be on the other side of this door!”
“Lane! I missed you…” We pull apart, and she steps around me, removing her jacket and shoes as Emily enters closely behind her.
“Hi!” Emily and I say in unison as we hug. Emily pulls us apart, her hands on both of my arms, and looks me over. She seems to be relieved—I probably look more well-rested than I did the last time she saw me. We follow Lane towards the living room arm in arm.
“Well, other than some baby crap, this place really hasn’t changed.” Lane flops down onto the armchair, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. Lane is the opposite of Emily in so many ways—which is, in my opinion, the best way friends can be. In total contrast to Emily, Lane is short and as pale as the moon. Her hair, often some sort of pastel colour (currently pink), is usually thrown into a messy bun. She dresses like a teenage girl who never quite left her goth phase—all black clothes, ripped jeans, piercings, and a splattering of tattoos that look more like doodles than art.
“I missed you too, Chlo.”
