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“Actually, I think I suffered more.”

“Obviously.” I roll my eyes, smiling.

“You know ‘cos I’m famous. Sensitive. Artistic.”

“It’s truly tragic.”

He pouts. “I know.”

I grab the front of his hoodie again.

“I am very sure.”

His eyes drop to my mouth.

“Very?”

“Extremely.”

He kisses me before I can say anything else. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me clean off the floor.

I yelp against his mouth. “Cal!”

“What?”

“I have legs.”

“Not interested in them for walking right now.”

I laugh as he carries me down the hallway. He stops outside his bedroom. His hair is a mess from my hands, and his mouth is already pink from kissing me.

I tighten my legs around his waist. His eyes darken.

“I’ve been replaying the times we’ve been together, Bea, non fucking stop.” My core tightens, and he notices.

He pushes the bedroom door open. I don’t care about anything except the way his mouth feels against mine and the way his hands are moving down my back like he’s trying to memorize me. He sets me down on the edge of the bed.

“Does that turn you on? Imagining me thinking about you?”

I nod. It really, really does.

My hands find the hem of his hoodie.

“Off,” I manage.

He pulls it over his head and drops it somewhere behind him. His chest is warm under my palms, his heart going fast enough that I can feel it through his skin.

“Look at me, Bea.”

I do.

His thumb traces the line of my jaw.

“You’re really here.”

“I’m really here.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, and I feel something give way in my chest. Weeks of holding myself together dissolving under his hands.