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“Cat got your tongue, baby?” He winks, pushing on my shoulders to guide me down in the seat. Everyone is watching, but all I can do is gape.
What the hell is happening?
“Are you okay?” I ask him, placing the back of my hand on his forehead. He stares at me in amusement, a low chuckle slipping from his mouth. “You don’t seem to have a fever. Are you dying?”
“Very funny,” he mutters. He leans into me, pressing his forehead against mine. Our noses touch as he lowers his lips to mine, the lightest flicker of movement as he utters, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I breathe out, the word barely a whisper as he presses his mouth to mine. We’ve never kissed, apart from that night I thought I was dreaming, and I’m not sure this even constitutes, as he barely pecked me before pulling away.
My heart races anyway as my lips tingle from the light touch.
That’s the closest we’ve ever come to a real kiss, and when I find my tongue tracing over my bottom lip, I know I want more.
“You doing okay there?”
“Yeah,” I tell him, turning to face the front when the teacher steps into the room. For the whole lesson, his touch never leaves me. If he isn’t tugging at the ends of my hair, he’s rubbing his fingers along my shoulder or squeezing my thigh.
His touch is gentle. Sweet even. Two words I would never have used to describe Theodore before today.
“What are you doing this weekend?” he asks when we leave the room. He throws an arm over my shoulder, tugging me into his body while he guides me down the hallway to my next class. I don’t bother asking how he knows what I have next—this is Theodore, he just always knows.
My footsteps falter at his question, my brain refusing to work and answer him.
“Casper.” He spins me to the wall, pressing my back against it as he rests his forehead above my head, his other hand creeping to my hip and holding me in place. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Nothing,” I tell him, shaking my head and plastering a smile on my face. I’ve no reason to lie to him, none at all. It’s not like we’re together or have had an actual conversation about what this is. When his eyes lock on mine, I can’t stop the lie from falling out. “Just hanging with Betty and Noah, you know. Bestie time. Why?”
“No reason,” he hums but says nothing further before dragging me down the hallway again. He delivers me right to my classroom door, pressing another barely existent kiss to my lips. He walks away with a wink, though, not before shouting out to me, “Be good, baby.”
When Friday comes, I’m a nervous wreck. Theodore has been all over me for the last couple of days with barely there kisses and light touches on my body whenever he gets the chance, but he hasn’t snuck into my bedroom since that night.
I’m not sure what it says about me that I’ve woken up every single morning filled with disappointment because he hasn’t come and taken claim on my body in the dead of the night.
Those same doubts fill my mind that he’s playing some kind of game with me.
A game I don’t understand.
A game I know I will lose.
Betty steps into my room, her hair fastened up in pin curls, and dressed in only a fluffy white robe. Her make-up is already half done, and she stares at me with pursed lips when she takes in my outfit.
I’m still in the same leggings and oversized AC/DC t-shirt I was wearing for uni today. My hair is tied back into two Dutch braids, and my face is bare of any product.
“Fallon,” she chides, placing her hands on her hips and staring up at me as though to scold me like a child. She might be a good six inches shorter than me, but she sure knows how to make me feel like the tiny one in our friendship. “You haven’t even started getting ready.”
“I’m getting up now,” I tell her, closing my book and placing it on my nightstand. “We aren’t going out for another two hours, I’ve got plenty of time.”
“It takes you an hour just to dry your hair.”
Rolling my eyes at her, I move into the bathroom and flip my shower on, steam hits the room as I grab a towel and strip down. I ignore Betty grumbling from my bedroom while I hop into the shower. The water runs over me, instantly warming my chilled skin.
By the time I rinse my conditioner, Betty is ready. Her hair has been released from its pins and is falling into Hollywood waves over one shoulder, and she’s wearing a red sequin mini dress that looks better suited to walking a red carpet than going to some crummy club on a Friday night.
“Aren’t you a little overdressed?”
“Nope,” she tells me, leaning over the side of my bed and handing me a bag. I take a glance inside, pulling the hanger out and staring at what seems to be a short dress, or a long t-shirt. I’m honestly not sure.
“What’s this?” I ask her, holding it up to the light to get a better look. It’s some kind of dress. The green material is silky and sleek, held up by two tiny spaghetti straps.
