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“Really?” I grin, gluing myself to his side.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to—”
“Of course I want to.”
He steps away, keeping a short distance between us, but I don’t focus on that and choose to watch his small smile and the way his face radiates under the rare sun. His eyes shine a bright-blue color and some of his hair looks lighter.
Christ.
How can a man be so fucking beautiful? The urge to kidnap him and keep him all to myself beats like a need beneath my skin. I’ve given up thinking this is only a phase that will go away or that there will be a day when I’ll see Bran and not have this queasy feeling in my chest.
I’m so screwed.
Bran clears his throat. “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“That. Whateverthatis.”
“Don’t think I can, baby. I have no self-control when it comes to you.”
He swallows and I can’t help watching the up and down of his Adam’s apple. Fuck. I flex my hand around the bag to stop myself from hauling him over and kissing the fuck out of his full lips.
“Does that mean you have self-control when it comes to everything else?” he asks, and his slightly husky voice does nothing to disperse Kolya’s attempt to rise to life.
“Yeah.”
“So all the rumors about your penchant for violence are incorrect?”
“They are correct. I love beating things and people up, but I have enough agency to stop. Can’t do that with you. It’s impossible.”
“Hmm. So I’m more important than violence?”
“Fuck yeah.”
He smiles a little. “Good.”
“You like torturing me?”
“It’s only fair.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
We spend the rest of the way in comfortable silence, and I find myself reveling in every moment I spend in public with him. I never liked silence, and wasn’t really given the choice considering how loud my brain is. Even with Bran, I often filled up any silence with gibberish. Admittedly, I talk too much. He doesn’t.
My Bran is one of those people who don’t talk unless he has something meaningful to say and I grew accustomed to his brand of comforting silence. It’s not tension-filled or brimming with unsaid words. It’s peaceful, relaxing, and fulfilling in its own right.
It’s his way of soaking up the moment, as he told me once, and I’m strangely picking up the habit.
I’d love to thread my fingers through his, but that’s not an option right now. One day, I’ll be able to hold his hand on the street.
One day.
When we’re inside the penthouse, I hurry to put the bags on the kitchen table so I can devour him. If I just drop them at the entrance, he’ll start nagging.
The sound of something hitting the floor reaches me first, then a strong grip lands on my bicep.
