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“I’m still alive. What do you think?” Extracting the sketchbook from my hands, he tucked it away in the drawer of the nightstand. His face remained frustratingly neutral.
“You’ve been drawing me since that first night?” I asked as I leaned on an elbow and looked down at him. A warm, protected feeling blossomed in my chest at the thought. He’d been thinking about me for years. It wasn’t only me that hadn’t been able to forget.
“Can we talk about this another time?” he grumbled, and a soft smile kicked the corner of my mouth up.
“You’re an amazing artist, Nico.”
“Thank you,” he mumbled. His arm tightened around me as I settled into his shoulder and curled around his side. In his arms, nothing could get to me.
Right as I slipped to the in-between of waking and sleep, I knew one thing with certainty.
He owned me body and soul.
