Bohdan isn’t in Pullman.
And I don’t think anything will ever fit the way Bohdan does.
It’s hard to explain to someone who didn’t fall stupidly in love when they were stupidly young how it changes you, on a cellular level, I think.
We’re both restricted in these funny ways. He’s in Seattle because he has to be, and I’m at the mercy of the admissions committees at graduate schools with anthropology programs that have concentrations in anything remotely related to health, and maybe those missed opportunities live inside me—but it doesn’t feel limiting.
The whole thing really feels like the possibility of a beautiful life with someone I love who loves me in a way I think people go their whole lives without being loved.
I step into this new home he bought, and it’s not restricting or limiting, it’s wonderful and lovely.
But it feels a bit wrong, to claim it as mine.
“Do you like it?” he asks, almost hesitant, while I run my fingers along the floor-to-ceiling windows, really just a mirror to the Sound, sparkling in the distance.
I glance back over my shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if I like it. It’s yours.”
“That’s not how this works.” Bohdan shakes his head, a hand tracking through his still-damp hair when he crosses the empty apartment towards me. “It’s ours.”
“How about this? It’s yours, but you’ve given me free reign on artistic privileges until I start making money and can contribute to the financial security of the household?”
“Too late. I already hung the only piece of art I’ll ever give a shit about on the fridge.” He points a thumb over his shoulder. I peer past him, and I see it there on the fridge—that old, worn Polaroid of an eighteen-year-old me.
I try to smile, but my heart stumbles against my rib cage, where it’s caught by Bohdan's hands. I blink away tears, but one slips out anyway. “Why do you still have that?”
“Forget my date of birth. Told you before, my life started that night.” He looks at me, impassive and stoic and serious as always.
“Well.” I roll my shoulders back to rest against the window. My voice gets quiet. “It can be your house for now, then. Until I move next year. Almost ours, if you will.”
“I will.” He nods, eyes going dark when he angles his head, looking down at me. One palm presses against the glass, right beside my head, the other finds my waist, and the heat of him radiates through the cotton of my T-shirt. “I missed you.”
I give him a small smile, bringing a hand to his chest. “Are you sure? Not too busy scoring goals to miss me? You should have seen everyone watching the game at FieldHouse. People go nuts when you score. Bohdan Novotnak, the pride and joy of MSU.”
“Yeah?” He gives me a wry look, drumming his fingers at my waist. “They were for you. Did you tell everyone you were my girlfriend?”
“Really?” I ask with a tiny roll of my eyes. “Your first professional hat trick was all for me?”
Bohdan grins, tipping his head down so his mouth rests against mine. “Most things I do are for you, Sloan.” He lingers there, lips moving slowly, tongue brushing against the seam of my mouth, searching for permission.
He kisses me, thoroughly, unhurried—we’ve got a whole week, after all, where we could stay here, pressed up against this window. My hands scramble across his back. They tangle in his hair, pulling on the wayward waves, and I’m arching into his chest and starting to move against his leg when he slides it in between mine.
His teeth catch my bottom lip with a tug, his words a rough groan. “You didn’t answer me. Did you tell everyone you were my girlfriend?”
“People know I’m your girlfriend, trust me. I get stopped on campus and asked for your autograph at least once a month.” My nails dig into his shoulders with a tiny intake of breath when his mouth moves across my jaw and down the side of my neck.
I feel him smile, teeth scraping my skin before his tongue brushes away the slight hurt. “You could sign for me, if you wanted. I’ll teach you to forge my signature.”
“I can’t imagine your agent would approve of that.” I bite down on my lip when his teeth find my earlobe.
“No different than me signing it, really.” He breathes against my ear, fingers bruising my waist, and his other hand finally comes off the window to tip my chin up. He looks down at me, grey eyes impossibly dark and his already full lips swollen from mine. “Pretty sure you’re what I’m made of.”
Another tiny inhale because I think my heart might stop. Not in a bad way. In the best way really.
I swallow, blinking up at him. “That’s quite the line.”
“Yeah. I guess it is.” He presses his thumb to my chin. “Got it from Talon. Says it has a pretty high success rate.”
“As much as I hate for Talon Valdez to be right about anything ...”
