Page 69 of If Only In Our Dreams

I’d written a scene like this in a book once.

It was a common trope in a lot of romances.

The only thing that would’ve made it better was if another snow storm had hit, fat white flakes blanketing the streets outside, and trapping Robin in my home where he belonged.

“I’m a blanket hog,” Robin warned, obviously worrying about something he shouldn’t be worrying about again.

“I’ll survive.”

“I might kick you.”

“I have toddlers. I’m not afraid of a few accidental kicks.”

“I snore,” Robin countered.

“You don’t,” I replied, because he didn’t.

A slow, happy grin spread across his lips. “There’s nothing I can say that will make you change your mind?”

“No.”

A beat passed.

“Okay.” His voice was meek. Far meeker than it had ever been before.

“Do you want to spend the night with me?” I asked, because for a moment I’d seen him hesitate. “I can still take the couch.” We weren’t promising sex. Neither of us had even broached the subject, despite our flirtation-ship since the very start.

Not that I’d be opposed to it.

The walls were thick in my apartment, the girls were safely asleep. There was a lock on the door, and while I would never, ever, ever invite anyone else into my home for such a thing, Robin felt…well… He felt different.

He was my exception.

In most things.

I didn’t make friends easily. I never had. Even back in high school when I’d been a die-hard eyeliner wearer and coated in buckles and black fabric of my own. I had friends because of how I looked, and not because I was particularly adept at making them.

I’d often wondered if I’d had a tendency to fall into cliques because of exactly that. A primal thing, searching for a pack by projecting where I’d like to fit because my words dried up and were easily misconstrued.

In a way, I admired Robin and his “trashmouth” as he’d put it.

He had so many words they spilled out freely. There was no hesitance, no doubt. I imagined if he let his walls down he’d have an easy time making friends. It was hard not to love him when he was so goddamn lovable.

Shaking away my thoughts, I crossed the last few steps between us and laid a hand on Robin’s shoulder. “Would you like a drink first?” I asked, because while I was quite certain I did in fact want to share a bed with Robin tonight, a little liquid courage wasn’t a bad idea for either of us.

We wouldn’t be getting drunk.

That would be irresponsible.

But to share a glass of wine while curled up on the couch together sounded like the perfect way to end a lovely day.

“Yes please.” Robin tipped his head back to watch as I moved past him. My fingers idly stroked through his hair on my way into the kitchen, the silken strands leaving a lingering sensation long after I’d released them.

If Robin was surprised when I returned to the couch with two half-full glasses of red wine in one hand, he didn’t say it.

“Big hands,” he observed, obviously impressed.

“A trick I learned I could do in college,” I explained, sitting down and slinging an arm over the back of the couch. I beckoned him closer, watching him carefully for any signs of discomfort. The foot of distance between us closed as Robin crawled into the hollow I’d left for him.

---