Chapter Twenty-Nine
Dean
Perfect
Ed Sheeran
Morning comes slow. The soft kind of slow, that’s warm and quiet. Like the universe finally stopped spinning just long enough to let me breathe.
For a second I don’t know where I am, or why the sheets don’t smell like the bus, or why the sunlight looks gold instead of fluorescent white. Then my hand brushes something warm beside me.
Face half-hidden in a pillow, breath steady, hair I couldn’t keep my hands out of last night spills across the sheets. One of her legs is tangled in mine. My arm is under her waist, like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.
And just like that, everything slams back into me. What we did. What I said. What she let me say. What she let me do. What she did right back that damn near broke me in the best possible way.
I’m not a man who remembers details from nights like that. I remember flashes of heat, skin, sound, but never the whole thing. But last night? I remember every single thing. The way she pulled me down by the chain on my necklace and whispered my name like a secret. The way her eyes lit up when I told her I wasn’t going anywhere. The way we connected as one, as if two pieces to a puzzle were finally linked together.
I study her, slow and reverent and terrified she’ll open her eyes and regret all of it. I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life. Most of them stupid. A few of them destructive. But this, her, it’s the first time in over ten years I’ve let myself feel anything that actually means something.
Which is exactly why panic tries to claw its way up my spine. What if she regrets it? What if she decided during the night that this was a mistake? What if this was her one night of being human before she goes right back to being untouchable? What if more metal falls from the sky?
My chest tightens. I don’t give myself to people. I make conscious choices not to. I don’t let myself feel. Except this time, I did. Entirely. Without armor. Without walls. And she’s still here.
Her fingers curl, brushing against my ribs like a small unconscious claim. My heart stutters a little too hard for comfort. I’m screwed. Completely and irrevocably, screwed because I’ve fallen for her. As much as I tried to fight it, I’m in love with her.
She shifts, brow pinching like the light is too bright. Her hand slides up my stomach in a slow, warm, familiar way it has no business being yet, and then her eyes open. Devastatingly blue. Sleep-soft. Vulnerable in a way few things are. For a breath, she just looks at me. And I can see there’s no regret, no panic, just a realization dawning in the draw of her brows.
“Hi,” she whispers.
Jesus. One word from her and I’m done. “Hi,” I murmur back, my voice rough from a night that shouldn’t be speaking at all. Her gaze drifts to my mouth. And then she blushes, actually blushes, I’m sure remembering what I did to her last night with it.
“How are you?” I wonder more than anything else I have before.
“Good.” She nods, then hesitates, chewing her bottom lip. “Are you?”
I want to answer instantly. I want to tell her yes, a thousand fucking times, yes. But the truth is more complicated. If I say I love you now, I know it will scare her. Instead, I lift a hand and brush my thumb along her jaw.
“No regrets,” I share quietly, but it’s firm, certain and maybe the most honest thing I’ve ever given her.
Her breath shakes. “Me neither.”
My whole body goes light for a second, like gravity forgot its job. She skims a finger across my collarbone, pausing on the spot where she pressed her mouth last night. Her voice drops into something that could ruin me for life. “Last night meant something to me, Dean.”
I close my eyes at that. Just for a second. Just long enough to let it hit me in full. When I look at her again, she’s still there. Neither one of us running, or shutting the other out. No more pretending.
“Good,” I whisper. “Because it did to me too, and I’m not going anywhere.”
Her lips curve into a small, surprised, hopeful smile. Her finger traces over the tattoo on my bicep. “What’s this one mean?”
My lips purse in a thin line as I track her touch over the ink on my skin. It’s a clock, streaked in a red. I clear my throat to try and release some of the emotions that suddenly seem caught there. “It’s the time of the crash.” I blink, then clarify. “Emily’s.”
“Oh, Dean.” A short gasp escapes her as she quickly retracts her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“How could you?” I reach out and pull her hand back to me. “It’s time for that to stay in the past.”
She cocks her head, a small grin appearing. “No pun intended?”
Before I can respond, there’s a knock on the door downstairs. It’s a checkout reminder or a delivery or the damn apocalypse. I don’t know and I don’t care. Neither does she.
