“It’s all good parts. Prepare to have your mind blown.”
We relocate to the couch properly after eating, Ethan loading the movie while I clear containers. When I come back, he’s arranged himself against the arm of the couch, one leg stretched out.
“Come here,” he says, patting the space between his legs.
“Presumptuous.”
“Efficient. Optimal movie-watching position.” He grins. “Plus Greg wants to see too.”
Greg is indeed positioned on the coffee table with a clear view of the TV.
I settle against Ethan’s chest, trying not to melt when his arms come around me. He smells like his usual cedar cologne mixed with something else—laundry detergent maybe, clean and comfortable.
“Comfy?” His voice rumbles through his chest.
“Yeah,” I manage.
The movie starts, but I can barely focus. Every time he laughs, I feel it. His fingers trace absent patterns on my arm. When I shift slightly, he adjusts automatically, pulling me closer.
“You’re not watching,” he murmurs during a car race scene.
“I’m watching.”
“You’re thinking too loud.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “Sorry. I’m not good at just... being.”
“Practice makes perfect.” He presses a kiss to my temple. “Besides, I like your busy brain.”
“Even when it’s overthinking everything?”
“Especially then.”
We watch in silence for a while, but the tension is building. His thumb strokes along my wrist. I shift again, accidentally pressing back against him, and feel his breath catch.
“Pip,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“You’re very distracting.”
“I’m literally just sitting here.”
“Exactly.” His arms tighten slightly. “Sitting there smelling delicious and fitting perfectly against me and making me thinkextremelyinappropriate thoughts during a family film.”
Heat floods through me. “What kind of thoughts?”
“The kind where I pause the movie and remind you exactly how good you felt last weekend.”
I turn in his arms so I’m facing him, straddling his lap. “So why don’t you?”
His hands find my waist, grip tightening. “Because I’m trying to be good. Take things slower. Court you properly.”
“Court me?” I laugh. “What is this, the 1800s?”
“I’m serious.” His thumbs stroke under the hem of my shirt, finding skin. “Last weekend was... intense. Amazing, but fast. I don’t want you to think that’s all I want.”
“I don’t think that.”
