“What for?”
I sigh. “Again, I can be a lot. Some people have complained about me being too, uh, affectionate before.”
Callum nudges his head into my chest. “Nah, I really don’t mind. I like knowing that you care.”
My heart fucking gives out. “Sweeter words were never spoken, Cal.” I curl around his back, savoring his warmth. It's like I'm a jetpack, but it works.
After what feels like only a minute, he slackens under my arms. As much as I joked about him using me as a furnace, he runs hot, so I withdraw to avoid overheating. His presence never leaves my consciousness, though, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm of his breathing.
Tomorrow, we’re gonna plan our little date that I hope he’ll want to repeat.
Tonight, I have him in my bed for a second time. That’s more than I could have ever hoped for even a day ago.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CALLUM
First grocery run in three years. Let’s do this.
This morning, I finally put my foot down with Ian and told him that I’m not going to mooch off him anymore, and that I’d buy us some groceries. He tried putting up a fight, hereallydid, but I practiced using my spine and didn’t back down. The compromise was that I’m buying, but that I’d drive his car to the store. That seemed fair enough to me, and it sure beats taking the campus bus.
Oh, and tonight is when we have our date. I spent months trying not to fall for Ian, only to end up starting a petty argument the very day we’re going out. It was hardly an argument, if I’m being honest, but still. There’s no way I’m not stepping it up tonight. I have to look the part. He’ll always outshine me, but I can do my best.
That’s why I find myself standing in the clothing aisle, contemplating buying the first new piece of clothing since I got here, save for a pack of boxers I got online, which doesn’t count.
After years of wearing the same four outfits on repeat, the multicolored choices in front of me are downright overwhelming. I fight the temptation to text anyone for help choosing an outfit; I’m not going to rely on other people for something as simple as buying a shirt.
Cursing myself for not searching up clothing inspirationbeforeI left, I run my fingers across a stack of polos. I suppose I could go full prep, and I might finally fit at this school, but the style isn’t me. As messy as my past is, I don’t want to completely change myself.
Besides, in the week since we got closer, Ian’s taken to stealing my T-shirts and wearing them himself, so that tells me he likes my aesthetic for some odd reason.
Or he just likes seeing me shirtless. Both might be true.
The section to the right brings a lot more promise. The shirts have buttons and regular T-shirt collars.
They’re called Henley shirts. I think I’ll try a few of those. Also, the model in the promotional poster is hot.
Am Ireallypicking a shirt based on how attractive the model is?
Yes, I am. It isn’t like I have much else to go on.
I have no idea what size I am in this store, so I grab three options and head for the fitting room. Out of habit, I check that the door is locked more times than necessary before stripping my shirt off.
My eyes catch on my reflection in the full-length mirror, and I pause. My workouts are showing a bit more now, thanks to Ian sharing his protein-rich athlete diet, though I’m nowhere near as defined as he is. His job is to be an athlete while mine is to shelve books, so it makes sense that my body’s quite a bit softer.
Okay, nope, it’s clothes time. I try the first shirt from the pile, and it’s an immediate no—I’m not trying to buy a crop top. A size up is slightly better, but it kind of drapes over me. It’s a look, that’s for sure, but I’ll try the last option.
Tall-sizing is the way to go. Not a crop top, not too baggy, and not tight like my old clothes. The shirt is a lighter blue than my flannel that Ian likes, but it’s still blue, and that’s enough to slip it into my basket.
It doesn’t cost that much, either. I have some wiggle room in my budget, especially since I got refunded my dorm fees, so I head to the pharmacy section for some more poking around.
There’s a tub of something called “Mess Paste” in the haircare section, and after giving the container a quick inspection, I toss that into my basket as well, since Ian always has his hands in my hair, trying to muss it up.
Is it weird that I’m only doing what Ian thinks is attractive?
Nah.
He’s hotter than the depths of hell my parents would say I’m headed for—I trust his opinion on what looks good, and I’m buying all this for myself, after all.
