Under me, she brushes my still-damp hair off my forehead. “There’s nothing we can do right now, and Gavin handled it. Stefan didn’t make a scene or harass anyone. He was only looking for me.”
“Doesn’t make me feel better,” I mutter.
Staring down at her like this—bare faced, lips still swollen, and in nothing other than my old Warped Tour t-shirt—Calypso feels likemine. More than anyone, or anything, ever has. Over my goddamn dead body will I allow Stefan to continue sniffing around her like a dog looking for a spot to mark his territory.
That’s one of the main differences between Stefan and me. Calypso isn’t an object to be coveted or possessed. She’s not a doll in a glass case who needs to be hidden away from the world. Stefan lost her because of his many foul traits, but mostly because he couldn’t separate his wife from the idea of her being his property.
I’m possessive of Calypso, sure. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be?
Monogamy doesn’t equate to proprietorship of her, or any person for that matter. I don’t want to own her, not even sexually. I want her to be mine because that means I’mhers. It’s about a partnership together, never about power or control.
Unless it’s in the bedroom, and she’s the one in charge.
“I didn’t think it would,” she whispers with a dry smile. “We’ll talk to Mia tomorrow, okay? Don’t do anything stupid.”
With a wolfish grin, I nip at her shoulder. “What stupid thing would I even do?”
She gives me an exasperated look. “Confront him? Make a scene? Punch him and get arrested?”
“So onlyyou’reallowed to do that, got it.”
Calypso rolls her pretty, honey-brown eyes and points a finger at me. “You wouldn’t let me go to jail over his ass either.”
Placing a soft kiss on her lips, I lay back down and pull her into my chest. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.”
With pleading eyes, she says, “Then we’ll go talk to Mia and see how she recommends handling this, right?” When I’m quiet, she starts to sit up a little. “Right, Liam?”
I tighten my hold around her waist and pull her back down. “Yes, honey.” I kiss her again—I’m a weak man, I can’t help it—and murmur, “That’s right.”
“Hmm,” she hums and squints at me.
We stare at each other for a long moment, only illuminated by the small strawberry-shaped nightlightsheplugged in for Rosie. Her heart beats in sync with mine, and I wonder if that ever happens when we aren’t next to each other—if we’ve become so in tune with each other that our bodies breathe in tandem as if we are two halves separated.
Breaking the silence, Calypso blurts out, “I’m—what are we doing?” Immediately, she closes her eyes and shakes her head at herself. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to be that person.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being ‘that person,’” I promise. “But tonotanswer your question, I’m addicted to you, Calypso. The town thinks we’re dating, and you’ve been my girl since we decided to roll with it.”
She eyes me and folds her lips between her teeth. Calypso loves my words, my reassurance. She just can’t bring herself to be so open.
Well, she can. Sometimes.
Her vulnerability is as fickle as the waves along the shore.
“We don’t have to label it further,” I suggest. “I have the project because of you, I live in your house, I’m exclusively with you despite whatever the fuck the town thinks, not because of it. I’m yours, honey. That’s good enough for me.”
Her brows furrow. “Are you sure it’s not just an obligation?”
I shake my head, trying to find the words. I understand why she has to question it, even though I fucking hate it. Calypso and I are so similar without being identical. We soften each other’s edges, as my mom always says about her and Paul.
One of those similarities is how responsible we feel for the people around us, how willing we are to sacrifice ourselves in favor of our siblings.
Nothing about being with Calypso feels like I’m giving something up—every day it has been a gift getting to wake up with her and watch her open herself more to me.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you for the last five months, Calypso.” I wrap a leg around hers, getting even more tangled up in her. Guiding one of her fingers to the four leaf clover tattoo, I explain, “I got this one about two weeks before I met you at the Siren’s Cove. Before then, I had never given much thought to luck, or if I had any. It was a flash sale for St. Patrick’s Day, and I don’t know, it felt stupid.”
She snickers but doesn’t say anything as she outlines the leaf with her finger.
“Two weeks later, I was planning to move to Amada Beach and meeting you at the bar.” I shrug. “Feels pretty lucky to me.”
