Then his eyes flick to the TV, and he gives me a faint smile. “Because careful gets boring.”
“No,” I say.
His gaze returns to mine.
“Careful keeps things from getting hurt. Keeps them... alive.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
There’s a brief flash of pain before he schools his expression.
I hate whoever made him think that careful means boring.
I hate every person who made him feel too quiet. Too cautious. Too easy to overlook.
Even before he knew I existed, I saw him.
And now he’s here on my couch. Looking at me like maybe—just maybe—he wants to believe me.
I smile gently. “Besides, boring men don’t let women they barely know convince them to share ice cream from the carton while watching a terrible horror movie.”
His mouth twitches. “I thought it was a classic.”
“Maybe it is.”
He laughs again, and the moment eases.
But I don’t forget.
I never forget anything about him.
His shoulders slowly sink back into the cushions. The tiredness catches up with him—the slow blink, the way his hand rests open on his thigh now, no longer curled in on itself.
He feels safe with me.
The thought settles somewhere deep.
I shift carefully, stretching out along the couch.
Drew looks down when my head comes to rest on his lap.
His whole body freezes.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Then I glance up at him through my lashes. “Is this okay?”
He stares at me, lips parted slightly, like the question short-circuited something in his brain.
Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than before. “It’s okay.”
Warmth blooms beneath my cheek.
His thigh is firm under me, his body heat seeping through the soft fabric of his jeans. I turn slightly, settling in like this is natural. Like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
Like I was always meant to be here.
His hand hovers above my shoulder, trying so hard to do the right thing, even though I would let him do almost anything.
