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When I brought out our bowls of pasta, sausage (pea-based for me), and mushrooms smothered in creamy sauce, Taavi had propped up a tablet on the end of the futon, and the Disney logo was frozen on it, presumably on pause.
I passed him a bowl, and he scooted over to let me sit with him on the futon. “What are we watching?” I asked, not really caring, although I had to admit to being curious.
He offered me a tiny half-smile. “Coco.”
I hadn’t watched a Disney movie since I was a kid, so I had no idea what that was aside from the fact that I’d heard the name thrown around the bullpen by people with kids. “Okay.”
I settled in, turning so that one leg was tucked up and I could see the tiny screen. Taavi scooted so that he could lean sideways against my leg.
Then he started the movie.
I snorted when the damn dog showed up, and Taavi shot me a small look. Yeah, he was still clearly in pain, still scared, but there was a little hint of mischievousness, and the fact that he’d put on a cartoon with a Xolo dog named Dante told me that maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t completely fucked us up.
“I should’ve gone with Dante, huh?” Before I’d managed to find out his name, I’d had to come up withsomethingto call him.
“You liked Anubis,” he said, his tone a little hesitant, but also teasing.
“I didn’t think of Dante,” I admitted, although given that Xolo dogs were spirit guides, Virgil might have been the more appropriate choice, since it had been Virgil who guided Dante into Hell. Yes, I read books.
“You never sawCoco?” he asked.
“Not until now.” I cleared my throat, then made a decision. “Speaking of names… Would… I mean, you can call me Val. If you want to.” I could feel my ears heating up. “Or not. Whatever.”
I could feel his dark eye studying me. “Okay. Val.” He rolled my name over his tongue, like he was tasting it, then gave me a small smile.
Don’t ask me why I wanted him to use my first name. I hate it. Usually. But—I wanted Taavi to use it. I also didn’t want to think too hard about why I did.
I made him pause the movie so I could get us seconds, then again so I could go make brownie sundaes.
As we finished those, I decided that we were both being ridiculous, giving ourselves crooked necks trying to watch this stupid movie sideways.
I set my bowl on the scratched-up coffee table, then reached out and took Taavi’s, as well. He looked at me, confused.
I stretched my leg out and patted the cushion next to it. “Come here?”
He studied me for a moment, head tilted, and I couldn’t tell what expression hovered in his mismatched eyes. I swallowed, but didn’t look away. I had no idea how to say what I felt, but I could just shut the fuck up andbethere.
Taavi shifted, using his one good arm—his left, thankfully—to maneuver himself so that he was sitting between my legs, one of my feet on the floor, the other up against the back of the futon, a couple ratty throw pillows behind me.
He leaned back tentatively, and I didn’t pull him, no matter how much I wanted to feel his body against mine. He settled back, resting his shoulders against me, and I felt it when he finally relaxed, leaning his weight into me.
I still kept my hands to myself.
Not because I wanted to.
Fuck no.
But I’d so royally fucked up this relationship—probably two or three times now—that I was determined not to do anything stupid. Or at least not anything so stupid that I’d wreck it again. Because I had the distinct feeling that if I fucked it up one more time, that was it. There was only so much shit Taavi was going to be willing to put up with, and one more dumbass comment from my big mouth or stupid move and that would be it.
His fingers ran up the inside of my right forearm, the skin exposed because I’d rolled up my sleeves while cooking, and I realized he was tracing the markings of my tattoo.
“What kind of pawprint is this?” he asked softly.
“A badger.”
“For your friend?”
“Elliot? Yeah. He’s got a moon and a star. We got them when I moved away.”
