It’s terrifying. I didn’t know you could feel like this, that people actually felt this about each other. I mean, I’ve seen the movies, I’ve read the book, and I’ve got all the socials where people are more than happy to broadcast their happiness and love stories.
But being on the other side of that?
It scares the living fuck out of me.
Later that night I’m splayed out on the couch, trying to decide what to watch when Kaden comes back. There’s a clicking sound as he unlocks the front door with the key I gave him some weeks back. He promised to use the key if I promised to keep locking the door, and I don’t know who got the better deal.
“Yo,” he calls from the hallway. There’s a low thump as he puts the guitar case down.
“Hey! How was it?”
“Great! Finn’s got a new song.”
He walks past me, wearing a smile, and throws me a bag of cherry ropes before he continues into the kitchen and washes his hands.
“Yeah? Was it good?” I ask, popping a rope into my mouth.
He comes back and lifts my legs, drops down and places my legs in his lap.
“Yeah, I think so. It’s not finished yet, though, but the chorus was good,” he answers, smiling at me.
“Thanks,” I say, waving the rope at him. “What’s the occasion?”
He shrugs. “Saw it when we grabbed some food, and thought of you. What are you watching?”
And I don’t know if he even realizes that he’s circling a finger on my ankle where my sweats have ridden up and there’s a sliver of skin exposed above my sock.
I swallow, trying to ignore the heat wave that small motion’s sending through my body and into my chest.
“Nothing. Couldn’t find anything.”
He glances at me, squinting a little. “Have you talked to Lou today?”
“Yeah? Why?”
A small smile is playing at the corner of his mouth, and he bites his lips together to hide it, before he climbs on top of me, in between my legs. The scent of his cologne hits my nostrils, making my stomach flutter.
“Are you brooding?” he says, sliding his hands inside my hoodie and places them on my chest, resting his chin on them.
I twirl a strand of his hair between my fingers. “No. Why?”
“You get this facial expression when you’re brooding,” he says, pushing his bottom lip out, like he’s pouting.
I scoff. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. Look!” He shifts, shuffles higher, and softly bites my bottom lip.
I tug it free, glaring at him. “I’m bottom-heavy.”
He snorts, eyes gleaming. “You’re what?”
“My bottom lip’s heavier than my top. It always pouts. That you haven’t noticed until now—”
“Shut up,” he mumbles with a smile, and presses his lips to mine. “I’ve seen your lips in every shape and form.” He kisses me again. “I can probably draw them from memory.” Another kiss. “Blindfolded.”
He’s an artist. That’s what he means. Nothing else. And he has a good eye for details. Because he’s an artist.
Be still my stupid heart!
