“You’re clearly after the whole set!”
Caspian looks at me for a long moment. I know what he’s doing. He’s figuring out how much more nonsense I have left in my system.
Well, I have plenty.
“Have you ever noticed,” I ask, hating the way my voice cracks, “that I have dark hair, brown eyes, and olive skin?”
He exhales and rakes a hand through his hair.
“Yes, Antonio, I have noticed.”
“Well, have you noticed—”
His hand cups the back of my head, gently but firmly so that I can’t escape his gaze.
“It’s okay to stop now, sweetheart.”
I swallow. I want to stop. But I can’t—not when it hurts so much.
“I love your hair,” he says, his fingers stroking my curls. “It looks like a halo of fury when you’re upset. I love your eyes and how expressive they are. I love your name, and how it sounds on my tongue.”
He pauses.
“I love everything about you.”
My throat burns. I blink back tears.
“The evidence suggests otherwise,” I say quietly.
Silence stretches between us, and suddenly I feel scared. Small.
I look down, convinced that I went too far.
Caspian tilts my chin up again.
“If you really feel that way, can you repeat it?”
I shake my head. I can’t repeat it. It was an awful thing to say.
“You didn’t mean it,” he says gently.
“No,” I breathe out.
“You’re ready to go home.”
“Please.”
Something cracks open in me. My hands curl into his shirt, the fabric bunching under my knuckles, and I press my face against his chest.
He’s my safety inhaler.
My need for him would probably feel humiliating if I weren’t so relieved. I hate what happens in my brain when I get like this, the way insecurity spins logic into barbed wire.
But I love that Caspian always knows how to cut his way through to me. I love that he’s willing to do it, over and over, and he never says I’m too much.
“There you are,” he murmurs against my temple. “My sweet boy.”
For a while he just holds me. His palm moves at the back of my neck, and his mouth brushes my temple. He kisses my hair once more and keeps an arm around me while he guides me toward the car.
