We promised each other we’d never push, that we’d never ask for more than the other could give. And we both kept that promise. Maybe too well, because we kept the hard and scary parts locked away.
But Oliver hasn’t let me lock anything away. He’s watched me fall apart and stayed, seen me hurt and helped. He’s held all my broken pieces without flinching and has helped me see the beauty in every one.
For so long, Arrow has been my safe space, but I don’t want safe anymore. I want someone who won’t let me hide.
Standing here with Oliver—with someone who looks at me like I’m worth the risk, worth choosing—I realize what I want.
I want someone who sees me in real life. In the mess of snowball fights and bacon cheeseburgers and black ice. Someone who tapes my ankle while I sleep. Someone who holds my hand like he’s afraid to let go.
I’ll tell Arrow when I get home. But right now, I’m moving forward with someone who sees me … and likes what he sees.
“I’m ready,” I say, and I mean it.
Oliver’s shoulders drop slightly, like he was holding his breath. He smiles at me, and I smile back, my heart hammering.
I don’t know what will happen when we get to Rochester. I don’t know if we’ll work, or if I’m making a huge mistake (and I really hope I’m not). But for the first time in a long time, I’m not hiding from what I want, and I’m not asking for permission to take it.
I thread my fingers through his. And we step into the lobby together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FLETCH
“Are you two checking in?” the front desk clerk asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But we need two rooms.”
The woman’s eyes flit between us, no doubt clocking how closely we’re standing, and then return to her screen. “Would you prefer different floors? Or …” she trails off, looking at something. “I have connecting?—”
“Connecting is great,” I say, kicking myself for how eager I sound. I hear Poppy sniff. “If it’s good with you, I mean,” I add.
“It’s fine,” she says. Her cheeks are tinged pink, which makes me feel a little better about my eagerness. Once we’re in our rooms, the conversation—the connection—ends. But if we have adjoining rooms …
We could stay up all night.
We could fall asleep talking in our own beds.
It wouldn’t be pushy. It would be …
Nice.
The clerk takes our ID and credit cards, and a few moments and signatures later, she’s handing us room keys. And Poppy and I are walking to the elevator, where we don’t say a word. Nor do we talk in the hall on the way to our rooms. But when we stop in front of rooms 303 and 305, I clear my throat.
“Uh, I’m going to shower,” I say. “Get into pajamas. That kind of thing.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want to—” I start.
“Should we—” she says at the same time.
“Sorry, you go first,” I say.
“No, you go,” she says.
But now I don’t want to. Because if I suggest we open the doors and talk more—or kiss—and she’s only thinking we should exchange numbers for tomorrow morning, I’m going to feel like an idiot.
We can’t stand here forever, though.
