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That’s what I do now, too.
I rush down the steps, and like always, I run to him.
But the heel of my sandal twists on something—knowing me, I’d say it could be a crack in the ground—and instead of going straight into Dean’s arms, I’m flailing mine so I don’t faceplant on the ground.
I don’t. Faceplant, that is.
Because someone saves me. That someone steps into my space, grabs hold of my waist and my arm so I collide with his massive chest instead of with the ground.
I’m so thankful and so happy to be with him I don’t have it in me to be embarrassed. Gulping in air, I look up at Dean.
“Thank you,” I breathe out.
He smirks. “You’ve still got two left feet, Tiny.”
I shake my head at him. “It could happen to anyone.”
“No. Not really. Only you.”
“It was an accident.”
“Sure it was.”
“That thing from the ground came out of nowhere.”
“Sure it did.”
His smirk is still in place, and I can’t decide if I want to smack it off his face or kiss it. I settle on narrowing my eyes. “You know, I don’t wanna fight with you today. So, you’re in luck. Or I would’ve kicked your ass for pointing out my coordination flaws.”
Dean chuckles and strangely, it vibrates through my own chest. “Lucky me.”
I take a moment to absorb him, absorb his nearness. He’s warm and strong. So solid. Dreams of him pale in comparison to the reality. In my dreams, I can’t smell his citrusy scent or touch the softness of his t-shirt. Or notice the nuances of his brown eyes.
“Hey, Dean,” I whisper.
“Hey, Tiny,” he whispers back.
I love it when he calls me that—Tiny. It makes me feel cherished. It makes me believe that I really am tiny. That I don’t have massive issues for which I take a pill every day.
“You’re early,” he murmurs.
I let his rumbly voice wash over me, seep through my clothes and into my skin. Winding my arms around his waist, I bury myself in his chest and nod. “I know.”
He lowers his face and his lips seem so close to my forehead that I’m disappointed when they don’t touch me as he says, “You’re never early.”
Closing my eyes, I smile. “I know. But I couldn’t sleep last night.”
His arms tighten around me in concern. “Why not?”
I burrow my face even more, grazing my nose against the tight arch of his chest. “Because of you. Because I was excited to see you. Be with you.”
“You need to sleep, Fallon. Are you sleeping well otherwise? Eating?” he asks, rubbing his clean-shaven jaw over my hair, concern still evident in his voice.
I sigh.
God, why does he have to be so wonderful? So caring and protective? It just makes all of this so much more difficult. It makes not kissing him and declaring my love for him even more agonizing.
Soon though. It’s gonna happen soon. I think. And hope.
Moving away, I look up at him. At his high, sculpted cheekbones and his soft lips. I gauge the distance between our faces. I’m shorter than him and I will have to stretch my legs, going up on my tiptoes to reach the height where I can put my lips over his.
I wonder over his reaction. What will he do if I kiss him out of nowhere? I wonder if he’ll kiss me back.
I wonder if he’ll finally admit we’re more than friends.
Biting my lip, I ask, “Aww. Are you worried about me, Dean?”
“Was that not obvious?”
“You’ve always been worried about me, haven’t you?”
Studying me, he frowns. “Am I supposed to answer that?”
I swallow and fist his t-shirt. “Answer me this. Why?”
“Why, what?”
“Why have you always been worried about me?”
His eyes rove over my face. My silver hair that I get from my mom and my gray eyes that I get from my dad. Dean takes me in like he was doing earlier, but this time, his perusal feels intimate. So intimate my body breaks out in goosebumps.
Then his gaze drops to my lips. My lips.
Is he studying my lips? Oh God, has he ever done that before?
The tingles I feel along the seam of them makes me think that yes—yes, he has. Only I’ve never caught him in the act. He’s never been this blatant, this intent. This close to me. So close all I can see is him. All I can smell is him.
I can’t help but tilt my face up, leaning more into his body. But as soon as I do that, he moves away.
Letting go of me, he says in a roughened voice, “Because you have a habit of not taking care of yourself and that worries me.”
I’m a little dazed and a lot disappointed. The breeze wafting over my body feels cold without his heat warming me up. It’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with this disappointment.
