Becausethisis the guy who acted like he barely recognized me at the Seafoam Inn. This is the guy who didn’t bat an eye when Mason introduced us, who treated me like just another person rather than a celebrity worth noticing. This is the guy who’s been playing it so cool this whole time, so blasé and unaffected?—
And he’s afan.
Or was, at least.
Dom looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. His face has achieved a shade of red I didn’t know was possible outside of cartoon characters. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
“It’s from when I was a kid,” he manages finally, voice strangled. “I haven’t even been in this room in?—“
I lean in, inspecting the poster. “Wait. Is this limited edition?”
The sound that escapes him is somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He drags both hands down his face, fingers pressing into his eye sockets like he’s trying to physically block out this moment.
“I waited in line with Mabie during a mall tour,” he admits, the words muffled by his palms. “Back when the show first came out. I was in middle school.”
I take a step closer, eyes roving over the paper. “It’s not signed, though.”
Dom huffs, crossing his arms over that distractingly bare chest. “The event charged extra for that. Didn’t have the cash.”
We just look at each other for a long moment as I consider this.
“Do you have a Sharpie?”
He blinks at me. “What?”
“A Sharpie. A permanent marker. You know, something that writes on glossy paper.”
He gestures vaguely toward the desk “Probably. Why?”
“Because I’m going to sign this poster. Obviously.”
“You don’t have to?—“
“Oh, shut up, Dom.” I’m already crossing to the desk, rummaging through a pencil cup that contains three dried-out pens, some old-fashioned #2 pencils, a handful of loose change, and one permanent marker. “Let’s just hope this isn’t dried out. Looks like you haven’t used it since high school.”
“Phoenix—”
“Shush.”
I pull the cap off the Sharpie and turn toward the poster. It’s hung high—too high for me to reach comfortably from the floor. The bed is the only option.
I climb onto the mattress, bare feet sinking into the rumpled sheets. Dom makes a sound of protest that dies in his throat when I wobble slightly, and suddenly his hands are on my legs—one on each thigh, steadying me without being asked.
His fingers are incredibly warm, even through the fabric of my jeans.
Thick fingers, calloused from years of mechanical work, wrapped around my lower thighs with a grip that’s firm but careful. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me that I absolutely do not have time to examine right now.
I reach up and scrawl my signature across the lower right corner, adding a small heart for good measure. The Sharpie glides smoothly across the glossy paper, leaving behind dark permanent ink.
“There.” I hop down from the bed, landing with a soft thump on the worn carpet. “Now this will actually be worth a few bucks if you want to sell it on eBay.”
Dom’s hands are still hovering in the air where my legs used to be. He stares at the poster, then at me, then back at the poster. His expression cycles through several emotions too quickly toidentify before settling on something that looks almost like wonder.
“Thanks,” he says finally, voice rough.
“Breakfast is ready downstairs. If you’re hungry.”
I turn and head for the door, not trusting myself to stay any longer. Not trusting myself to examine why his hands felt so good against my skin, or why the sight of that poster made my heart do something strange and fluttery in my chest.
