Page 138

A smile pulls at my mouth. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.” I brush my thumb along his cheek again. “I only want you.”

His ears are turning red.

“And,” I add, “the same goes for you.”

His eyes snap back to mine. “What?”

“You can’t keep your options open either.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.” His cheeks are even redder now.

I lean over and press a soft kiss to his cheek.

He freezes. Then I pull back. “Good boy.”

After he eats enough, he announces he needs a shower.

Announces is a generous word. Really, he just glares at me and says, “I’m showering.”

I fully intend to follow him, so I take one step after him, but he turns and places a hand flat against my chest.

He’s trembling.

Only a little.

His fingers aren’t pressing hard, but they aren’t playful either. His green eyes lift to mine, and when he speaks, his voice catches right at the start.

“D… don’t come with me.”

It isn’t a bratty little refusal designed to make me push back harder. This one is real.

“Okay.”

I can see the relief take over his face. Then he disappears down the hall, and I stay where I am, staring at the bathroom door, and tell myself I need to be patient.

A while later, he comes back.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and one of my long-sleeved shirts—black, obviously, because he raided my closet earlier and immediately gravitated toward the darkest thing with long sleeves in it, like a wounded animal selecting camouflage. It hangs a little loose on him, sleeves covering his wrists completely. He had insisted on long sleeves.

Insisted.

I have a couple of ideas why.

None of them improve my mood.

His hair is still wet, the damp ends brushing his forehead and neck in soft little disordered pieces.

He looks at me and sees me staring. “What?”

I lean back into the couch and let my gaze drag over him. “You look good in my clothes.”