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“And I love you,” he said simply, spinning around to settle his head back into my lap. “You don’t really hate it, do you?” he asked after a few seconds, looking up at me.

“It looks like broccoli,” I sighed. “It’s really not great.”

He let out a bark of laughter, his expression fond if somewhat exasperated. “You say the sweetest things to a boy, Cal.”

“Shut up. You like it.”

His chin tipped forward, his gaze dropping to the prominent bulge in his sweatpants. “For some fucked up reason, I apparently do.”

“You’re such a slut.”

“Only for you.”

I patted his chest, chuckling as I went back to scraping my nails through the close-cropped crown of curls.

“Speaking of being a slut, if I let you do whatever you want to me, will you promise not to cut it for like …” I paused, remembering what it’d looked like that first day of camp compared to how long it had been three days ago and calculating how much it had grown in between. “At least six months,” I settled on.

He smirked up at me. “But you already let me do whatever I want to you.”

Shit. He had me there.

“What about if I buy you a car?” I threw out instead.

He pushed himself up to a seated position, glaring at me. “Hey, so. This is one of those times I can’t figure out if you’re fucking with me or not.”

“Sorry,” I sighed. “I’m just being a baby.”

“Yeah. You are,” he huffed, though he must not have been too annoyed since he leaned back, burrowing into my side as my arm automatically came up around his shoulder.

I dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “I just hate change. I’ll stop complaining now.”

“I know you do.” He turned his head to kiss my arm, then lifted it to read the time off my watch. “Shit. We have to leave soon.”

I let out a groan. “Remind me why we agreed to go to this thing?”

“Because the idea of spending Thanksgiving with your parents gave you literal hives.”

I appreciated that he didn’t mention the nightmare that had accompanied said hives.

“Ah, right. That.”

Unfortunately, the nightmares were a regular thing now. A couple of times, I’d dreamed about Devin, but mostly it was my dad and his commentary about how shitty the Marauders were playing that set me off. Sometimes, though, they weren’t about anything at all; I’d just wake up in full panic mode, having no idea why.

And every single time, Mikey was there to bring me back to myself.

He let out a sigh, then swung his legs down to the floor and stood. He twisted right, then left—stretching out his back—and flashed me a flirty grin. “I’m gonna go take a shower. Wanna join me?”

I did, but …

“Raincheck? I have to call my mom and wish her a happy Thanksgiving. My dad said she’s been on his ass about me not coming home this year.”

Mikey groaned, slumping forward. “Ugh.”

“Look, I know you don’t like him. I don’t much either, but it’s not my mom’s fault he’s an asshole. It’s a holiday; the least I can do is call her.”

“Just don’t let yourself get dragged into another debate about the game against Brooklyn. We won. He needs to let you have that.”

“I won’t let him rattle me,” I promised, already scrolling to my mom’s name in my contact list.