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Zephyr blinked for a second, her brain catching up to their conversation. “Oh. Oh. Tomorrow. Zen and I are going there tonight after I pack for the trip. I’ll take my bag. She’ll stay with them while I’m out of town. We can head to the airport straight after because my parents are romantics and think we’re marrying out of love and my mom is skeptical about the suddenness of it so she’ll interrogate you and we’ll have an excuse to get out—”
“Breathe,” he told her again and she stopped.
Okay.
God, he was hers.
It hit her out of nowhere. Impulsively, she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him tight, exhaling a shaky breath against his chest. He stilled, his arms at his sides, holding her biceps with his large hands, not embracing her but not rebuffing, confused.
She’d seen the way he’d looked at her hugging Zen, and she wondered if anyone hugged him anymore. She wondered when was the last time he’d been embraced with love, and held him tighter. Hugs were her thing. People loved her hugs. If hugging was a contest she'd surely be a runner-up. So she’d hug him. Every day, she’d hug him until he returned it, until he accepted that it was normal, until he began to crave it from her.
She’d break down his defenses, one hug at a time.
All in good time.
Happy birthday, Zephyr Villanova.
