“Good sign.”
“I thought so.”
“What do you think? Are we done for the night?” He was already reaching for the remote. I could’ve stayed up with him longer, but that might have led to waking up tangled on the couch and the resulting complications, so I forced myself to nod even as I plopped down in my spot. He shut off the television, snapping us into silence. “I hate that show,” he mumbled, folding his arms over his chest.
I gasped. “What?”
“The most overrated series of all time.”
“You’re the most overrated of all time!” I cried. “The Officeis classic. Steve Carell deserved an Emmy. I’ll die on that hill.”
“Have fun with that,” he said, his eyes slipping shut. I leaned my head against the couch, admiring the slope of his nose, the sharp jut of his jaw, his dark hair curling over the top of his ear, his eyelashes long enough to fan across his cheeks.
“Okay,” I said. “What would you watch, then?”
He hummed thoughtfully. “I’m not a big TV guy. I’d rather watch a movie.”
Another tidbit unlocked. I wanted to unravel everything about him, right here on this couch. “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Magnolia,” he answered without hesitation. “Fuckin’ masterpiece.”
“Is that Paul Thomas Anderson?” He opened his eyes, regarding me with muted surprise. I smiled and added, “Phantom Thread. Fuckin’ masterpiece.”
He groaned, shutting his eyes again. “You’re wrecking me, woman.”
My heart banged against my rib cage twice, three times. I licked my lips, unable to draw in a sufficient breath. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“Do I?” I stared, rapt, as he opened his eyes, keeping them focused on the ceiling. “Does that mean we’re not pretending it never happened anymore?”
He let out a small sigh. “Violet.”
I raised my hands innocently. “Hey, you’re the one who brought it up.”
“I don’t think I did.”
“Okay, well.” I took as deep a breath as my struggling lungs would allow. “I think we should talk about it because it did happen and it was…”
I trailed off as his eyes cut to me. The dull lamp behind me cast long shadows around us, framing his head, and he was so much more beautiful than he ever was as an intimidating stranger. I pitied anyone on the street whose eye he caught—they’d miss out on the things that made him shine like this.
“It was really fucking good,” he finished for me, his voice low, ragged. I felt it somewhere deep and untouched. A want so foreign, I was sure I was the first to ever feel it—or second, considering the look in Dex’s eyes.
“Yeah,” I exhaled. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”
He swallowed. “I can’t stop. It’s on a constant replay in my brain.”
“That’s good. I was a little worried I was alone there.”
“Not alone. I am very present.”
“Are you?”
He broke away, leaning his head back against the couch. “I shouldn’t be. But yeah. I really am.”
“How present?” I asked softly, eyes roving over his face. That muscle in his jaw jumped predictably—I could read him in ways I never dreamed possible the day we met. So tightly wound, valiantly holding himself back from the things he wanted. God, I wanted to see him come undone again.
“Violet.”
