Page 84 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Thatcher is already back at the table, leaning back in his seat with an unbothered expression on his face. His eyes meet mine across the room and butterflies erupt.

This feeling in my chest is dangerous territory.

My feet move before my mind can catch up, each step deliberate and slow as if I’m walking through water. The dining area feels too bright, the murmur of voices and clinking of silverware too loud. Yet everything else fades to the background—there’s only Thatcher, lounging there like nothing’s out of place, like nothing just happened.

I stop a few feet away from the table, the weight of his gaze of pinning me in place. He leans forward slightly, resting on his elbows on the edge of the table, the smirk still playing on his lips as he gestures again to the empty booth across from him.

Without a word, I slide into the booth, ignoring Thatcher’s widening smirk and focusing instead on the slightly stained linoleum table in front of me. Slowly, I reach out and grab my coffee mug, taking a sip.

I keep my focus on the mug in my hands, gripping it like it’s the only thing tethering me to reality. I trace the chipped rim, the lukewarm coffee doing nothing to soothe the heat crawling up my neck.

“Dove,” he says.

The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why do you call me that?”

Thatcher pauses mid-bite, his eyes meeting mine again. For a moment, the teasing glint is replaced by something unreadable, something that makes my stomach twist in knots. “What do you mean?”

I put my coffee down and pick up the fork. “Dove,” I clarify. “Why do you call me that?”

He sets his fork down, his smirk softening into a crooked smile. “Because you remind me of one,” he says simply, as if that explains everything.

“A dove?” I press, furrowing my brows.

He shrugs, leaning back in his seat and studying me like he’s deciding how much to say. “They’re quiet but stubborn. Soft but tougher than they look. They don’t back down easily.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“And,” he adds, his smirk returning full force, “you get flustered just as easily.”

I feel my face heat up, the flush creeping up my neck as his words hit too close to home. “No, I don’t.” I take a bite of pancake, forcing myself to focus on the food rather than him. But it’s hard to ignore those eyes.

Thatcher chuckles, the sound low and warm, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. “Sure, Dove. Whatever you say.”

I keep my eyes on my plate, refusing to let him see the effect his words have on me. That maybe he means something more to me now than he did before. And maybe I mean something to him. The pancakes, once a welcome distraction, now feel like an inadequate shield against the intensity of his gaze.

He resumes eating and I sneak a glance at him, taking this rare moment to observe him. It’s strange, seeing him like this — quiet and focused, without the usual edge of provocation in his expression. The sunlight streaming through the diner’s window catches in his hair, highlighting the light strands, a dimple popping on his cheek as he smiles at something unseen.

My gaze catches on his wrist as he lifts his loaded fork to his mouth. My scrunchie.

The pale blue fabric sits snug around his wrist. A soft contrast to his confident demeanor. It feels strange, almost out of place, like a piece of my world awkwardly clinging to his. Before I can linger on the thought, my eyes trail to his fingers. The ones that were inside of me not too long ago, making me feel things I have never felt.

I wonder if he can keep his promise of protecting me, or if he’s just saying it for the thrill of it. Because in a way, this little game we are playing is fun. I did not think I would ever admit that to myself, but here I am.

“Do I need to kill somebody?” he whispers.

My eyes meet his in shock. “Excuse me?”

He leans back. “You don’t like the rumors, so––”

I give him a sarcastic grin. “Are you fucking crazy? I didn’t mean you should hurt someone.”

“It would be fun,” he says, licking his lips. “You and me against the world, Dove.”

My eyes drop to the pancakes again to take a few bites.

“What about the Reapers?” I question.

He chuckles, leaning forward. “What the fuck do you know about that?”

---