That makes his mouth fall open, out of words for a moment before he speaks again.
"No way. Damn. If you told me what idiot made you cut that beautiful hair, I'd smack him."
"Then smack yourself." I smirk while he's still shaking his head. "I do miss it long, though. Maybe I'll grow it again."
I'm not just saying it for him, I genuinely mean it. I used to think that hair represented your soul, and mine was always big and untamed.
"Please do." His voice goes softer, almost reverent. "Passing you in the lobby with long hair again? That'd be a dream."
I pull a face, even though that kind of got me. "Really?That'd be your dream?"
"Yeah," he doubles down, serious. "What's your dream?"
"Too many. As usual. You know me. I'm an endless dreamer."
"Don't say it like it's a personality defect. I like that about you. A lot."
It shouldn't feel so good when he says things like that, but it does. I bite back my grin and slide into the seat, getting comfortable.
"You don't think you should pick one and go all in?"
He pulls a face. "Screw that. Have a hundred. Dream big. Say them out loud, let them form and die. They don't have to come true to be real. That's why they're calleddreams."
I stare at him for a beat, moved by the weight of it.
"Wow. Okay, philosopher. I thinkyou'rethe writer here," I say then.
"Yeah, right." He smirks at the idea. "I did use to keep a diary, though. Until my mom found it and sentenced me to a year of Sunday school."
"No," I gasp. "That was supposed to be private."
"She didn't know. I was an idiot. Fifteen. Didn't bother to get one with a lock. You know, hormones staging a coup on common sense." He rolls his eyes at himself and makes a sharp turn to the left. "I had lots of meaningful stuff in there, but of course, she flipped it open the day my thoughts were borderline criminal."
I sputter a laugh. "Ben, a teenage testosterone bomb? Cute."
"Mmm. Not really." He presses his tongue to his upper lip, hiding his grin. "I wrote a full page about this one girl in my school, how I'd back her up against the lockers and what I'd do to her. And I was... detailed. Mom told the priest I was possessed."
I slap my hand over my eyes, half-laughing, half-horrified.
Also, should I wish it was me—the girl with a broken reputation? No. I shouldn't.
"God. I'm buying you one with a lock, so you can become a dark romance novelist," I joke.
A hearty laugh bursts from him as he grins, unrepentant. "Don't judge me. Everyone's a little wild."
"Not me," I say, hand on my heart in self-defense. "My high school nickname was Literally Home By Nine."
He whips his head at me, searching my face, like he's not sure he heard me right. "Not you? Don't even try it, I've witnessed you."
I shoot him a look, caught off guard. Then shove his face away because he's unbelievable. “Stop flirting with me. Right now. It’s enough.”
“What?” He catches my hand and guides it between my thighs like there’s nowhere else it could go. “I’m not flirting.”
"Oh yeah?" My eyes narrow. "Then what are you doing?"
He tempers the smile that’s giving him away. “I’m a professional. I observe and state facts.”
"Uhum. Facts. Sure." I repeat, pursing my lips.
