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“It’s eight thirty.” And I feel like I’m essentially being I don’t know, dumped? Rejected? Whatever this feeling is, it sucks and I need Sasha or hell, Aria.
“And if you had plans, I’d know about them. Stay in the house, Madeline.”
“Can I go to Aria and Henr
y’s?”
“Aria got called in.”
I let out a sigh. “Can Sasha come over?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the last time she came over when I wasn’t there, you two got drunk as hell.”
We were bored! “Lock your liquor cabinet.”
“You picked the lock!” he argues.
I huff. “This is ridiculous. Fine.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you when I get home.”
“Bye.” Regret unfurls in my chest the second I end the call as I think about the fact that I didn’t tell him to be safe. I type out a text to him, my finger hovering over the send key, before I close my eyes and send.
Me: Be safe. I love you.
Superhero: Back at you, Mads.
It wasn’t the first time I’d told Cal I loved him, and he was no stranger to saying it back, but it’s the first time I’ve said it since his tongue was down my throat.
The sounds of rattling in the kitchen rouse me from sleep. I made a point to watch a movie in the living room versus my bedroom, knowing I would fall asleep on the couch and make it so Cal had to wake me up when he got home. He’d never leave me to sleep there all night.
“Shit,” I hear from the kitchen followed by the slam of a microwave. I’d whipped up some stir fry while he was gone, knowing he’d be hungry when he got back, and I assume that’s what he’s trying to do. I sit up, throwing the blanket off of me and pad into the kitchen where I see him sitting at the table with his head in his hands and a tumbler of a brown liquid—probably whiskey in front of him.
“Rough night?” I ask.
His head snaps up and you’d think I was naked by the way he looks over my body. I’m wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, so it’s not like he has flesh to feast his eyes upon. I look down to see, feeling slightly subconscious, but when I meet his eyes, they’re filled with something I don’t recognize.
Want maybe?
“Not as rough as this afternoon,” he grumbles.
“I’m so sorry that it was so hard for you. I won’t give you the arduous task of having to kiss me again, swear.” I was tired of his moody teenage girl attitude.
That’s my role.
Instead, I’m handling this with way more maturity, making me wonder who exactly the adult is here. I move towards the microwave and open the door, knowing that he always leaves it in there too long and sure enough his food is practically steaming. The plate is hot and I snatch my hand back from it, the heat searing into my skin and shooting up my arm. “Fuck,” I groan as I wave my hand to try and cool my fingers. He’s by my side instantly, pulling my hand to the sink and letting it run under the cool water which does nothing for my heated skin that’s responding to his touch. “You always leave it in there too long.”
“Sorry.” He pulls my fingers out from under the water and holds them in his hand before pulling the wet hand to his lips, sucking the excess water from my skin. He presses kisses to each of my burnt fingertips before letting it gently fall. “Better?”
No, this was most certainly not better. What about you sucking my fingers is better? “You’re giving me serious whiplash.”
His eyes widen and he takes a step back, probably remembering that touching me is what got us into trouble earlier. “I can’t think when I’m this close to you. I make bad decisions.”
“Was touching me so bad?”
