Page 92 of Obedience

Dylan grimaced, ‘Stobbit you big dafty I’m—’

‘Stop,’ Greta interrupted, with a peck on Dylan on the lips. ‘Just take it.’

With the most tender of touches, Dylan moved Greta’s hair over her shoulder with the back of her hand, leaving it resting on her neck, her thumb brushing over her cheek in a soft curve. Drawing in a long slow breath she examined every inch of Greta’s face. In total silence she traced the soft brown of her eyes, the arch of her thick sculpted brows and the natural curl of her lashes. She looked at the faint lines around Greta's eyes and mouth—the map of a lifetime of emotion and expression—the bow of her top lip and the plumpness of the bottom. Dylan’s brow furrowed under the weight of the words she was holding back. The words felt right, hidden deep in her chest, but it was far too soon to say them aloud. She couldn’t risk giving Greta a reason to run.

‘I don’t half fancy you,’ she said instead.

‘Are you, in fact, a teenage boy?’ Greta laughed.

A wide smile spread over Dylan’s face as she whispered, ‘Shut up and kiss me.’

***

‘I’m impressed with your overnight bag packing, Dylan,’ Greta said to Dylan’s reflection, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Were you worried I’d have bundled you into a taxi in last night's clothes sans your kecks, with a blanket over your head? Like some miscreant leaving court?’

‘A little,’ Greta laughed as she finished applying her mascara in the mirror. She caught Dylan’s reflection again and raised a brow. ‘Miscreant? That’s a great word.’

Dylan dropped into a mocking—but surprisingly good—Trump impression. ‘Oh, I know words. I know all the words. No one knows more about words than I do. Big, beautiful words. I may have even just invented that word right here on the spot. We’re not certain, but I think we’re gonna check it out. We’re working on that right now.’ She sucked in a dramatic breath, her hands moving as though she were playing an air-accordion. ‘You know who hasn’t invented any words?’ Greta shrugged, eyebrow quirked as she watched Dylan in full performative glory. ‘Sleepy Joe Biden.’ A deep throaty laugh came from Greta, shaking her head as she slid the wand back into its tube. ‘Anyway,’ Dylan chuckled, her voice back to normal. ‘It wasn't all for you, Doctor Vincent. I love you in that colour.’

Along with Greta’s creams and makeup, Dylan had brought the outfit she had hand-picked. Her eyes had immediately been drawn to the dark green shirt dress hanging in Greta’s wardrobe. Though the fit was relaxed, the deep emerald made Greta’s pale skin glow. It was the same colour as the shirt Greta wore the day their real lives collided. A colour she had never really paid any mind to before she turned on her chair and life was forever changed. Paired with her brown brogues, the sight of Greta’s smooth, naked legs and the open buttons flashing a hint of cleavage were enough to drive Dylan to distraction.

Three neat packing cubes sat open nearby on the bed, the precise organisation had immediately drawn Greta's eye. The meticulous order was definitely a far cry from the woman who had come undone in the restaurant and fucked Greta against the hotel room door the night before.

In the mirror, Dylan pinched and poked at her full soft curls, standing just behind Greta in slouched jeans and a dark maroon sweatshirt. On her feet were the dreaded Converse.

‘Shall we go shopping?’ Greta asked Dylan’s reflection.

‘Err, yeeeah,’ Dylan’s tone was both curious and a tad suspicious. ‘What for? I need some food first, and I’ll be going to see Margs, but— ’

‘I want to buy you some new shoes,’ Greta said matter-of-factly, fastening a silver hoop through her lobe.

Dylan looked down at her feet, frowning as she poked out a pondering bottom lip. ‘I don’t need new shoes.’ She pulled her gaze back to Greta’s in the mirror.

Greta moved to the other ear. ‘Dylan, your shoes are objectively disgusting,’ she said without a hint of amusement.

A smile tugged at the corners of Dylan’s lips. ‘What’s your problem with Converse, Doctor Vincent?’

‘I have no issue with Converse, Miss St John, but that particular pair should come with a public health warning.’

‘Oh good. I was worried you’d be coming after my Crocs next.’

‘You do not wear Crocs,’ Greta scoffed. Dylan tilted her head and shrugged as Greta’s hands froze. ‘Shit, do you wear Crocs?’

Dylan laughed and shook her head. ‘Not yet, but they do look hella-comfy. Especially the fur-lined ones.’

‘No, Dylan.’

‘But the ones with headlights poked in the holes are—’

‘Just no,’ Greta laughed. ‘Anyway, is that a yay or nay to shoe shopping?’

Rolling onto the sides of her feet, Dylan lifted each leg in turn to inspect the soles. She rubbed the top of one foot against the back of her ankle, as if giving the beaten-up canvas and rubber a little polish.

‘Hmm… I suppose so. But I can buy my own shoes, thanks all the same.’

‘I’m buying them for you.’