“This,” I manage. “Whatever this is.”
She studies me for a long moment. I can feel her pulse where she’s pressed against me. Then she smiles, small and private.
“Me too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She curls against my side like she belongs there. Because she does. She really does. “Even though you’re emotionally stunted and can’t admit you are a total softy.”
She’s laughing into my shoulder, her whole body shaking with it. I’m laughing too, and the bed’s a disaster zone of pizza and wine and us, and somehow this is the happiest I’ve been in… ever?
“We should clean up,” she says without moving.
“Should we though?”
“The grease is gonna—”
I shrug. “Tomorrow’s problem.”
She props up to look at me. “You’re really embracing this new spontaneous thing.”
“When in Rome.”
“We’re not in Rome.”
I blank, jetlag already setting in. “True. When in… what’s this place called?”
“Portofino, you absolute disaster.”
“Right. When in Portofino.”
She kisses me, and she tastes like wine and marinara and possibility. Her tongue slides against mine, lazy and thorough, like we have all the time in the world.
I hop up to clear away the pizza boxes and then rejoin her on the bed. We settle in together. Her back to my chest. My arm around her waist. Perfect fit.
“Dean?”
The contentment in the room shifts slightly, becomes something heavier. “Yeah?”
“What happens tomorrow?”
I pull her closer, buying time, feeling the warmth of her against me. “We’ll figure it out.”
She’s quiet for a beat, and I can feel her processing, deciding whether to let it go. “That’s not really an answer.”
“I know.” The truth is, I’m not sure.
She turns in my arms. Studies my face in the dim light. “I’m scared too, you know.”
“I know.”
“But I’m glad you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She kisses me. Soft. Sweet.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow can wait.
