Page 81 of Level Up for Love

Chapter

Twenty-Two

He’s still here.

I wake up, and he is still here.

We’re tangled together on my sectional, Wesley practically lying on top of me—the best sort of weighted blanket—with his legs overlapping mine and his arm thrown across my waist. My head is propped up against the armrest, and his is burrowed, perhaps purposefully, against the side of my chest. One of my checkered throw blankets covers us half-heartedly, from my middle to the tops of my calves. The sun behind my gauzy silver curtains is bright, and I can hear shrieking kids at the park down the street, so it must be late morning at least.

I usually take Sundays pretty slow. Without Wesley here, I’d probably turn over and fall back asleep. But despite his promise, I’m still so stunned to find him here that I’ve never been more awake.

In time, I relax and gently settle my arms back around him—one across his shoulders, the other around his lower back. Rays of sunlight slide through the gaps in my curtains, making dust motes sparkle in the light and setting the palest strands of Wesley’s hair to gleaming gold. It’s wonderfully messy right now, sticking up in swoops and cowlicks all over his head. His cheeks have the slightest hint of a shadow to them, and I realize I’ve never seen him anything but completely clean-shaven. A mild thrill runs through me to see him so…disheveled.

I can’t help but will this moment to freeze in time so I can lie in the stillness of the morning and admire Wesley without him knowing. So I don’t have to wonder what he’s thinking, or what his goals are, or whether I can trust him this time around. We love to banter and bite and argue, but the quiet is nice for once.

As if he can hear my thoughts—as if, even in sleep, he cannot bear to let me get away with anything—his long eyelashes flutter before he slowly blinks awake.

But he doesn’t say anything at first, as if he, too, can sense how precious this moment is; he just holds my gaze with a sleepy half smile and brushes a strand of hair from my face.

“Hey, you,” he says finally, and the sleepy huskiness of his voice makes something in my chest melt.

“Hey.”

He twines one of my curls around his fingertip. “Coffee?”

“I’ll make some.”

But I don’t move. How could I, when his arm is winding slowly around my ribs, pushing me deeper into the couch? When our bare bodies are still pressed together, and I can feel him hard at my hip?

Coffee does come later, though Wesley does an admittedly excellent job of waking me up before then.

Afterward, the morning is marked by uncharacteristic patches of comfortable silence as we ease into the afternoon. We share my small kitchen to put together a brunch that’s half pizza, half random shit I have in my fridge (which is mostly empty since it’s grocery day), and he peppers me with questions like What do you usually eat for breakfast? and, holding a mug from my extensive collection, Where did you get this one? When we’re done eating, Wesley settles back onto the couch without asking and turns on his laptop to continue his work, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. As if we do this every Sunday afternoon.

As if he belongs here.

I return to my office to resume working on my game as well. Once I’m finally in a room that he doesn’t also occupy—I will not make eye contact with that section of the desk—it dawns on me that I’ve broken all my rules.

Never bring them to my apartment

Leave before 10 a.m.

Say goodbye, but don’t get friendly

I haven’t just tiptoed over the line in the sand—I’ve leapt over it in abandon, sprinted my way to the other side. Wesley had been the inspiration for the last rule especially, all those years ago, though I’d never admitted that to Mona. Instead, I’d just promised myself to never run like he had.

And now, for him, I’ve thrown all my rules out the window.

I cast a glance over my shoulder and into the living room. Wesley catches my eye and shoots me a smile.

Shit.

And fuck me, but I can’t help myself—I smile back.

“We should do this again,” Wesley says. He stands in front of my apartment door, backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Which part?” I tease.

He runs a palm down my left arm, pausing to press his thumb into one of the peony tattoos right under the crook of my elbow. A single brow arches upward. “All of it, I hope.”