Page 112 of At First Flight
My eyes sting again. I blink fast.
“I’m scared,” I whisper. “Of what it means if I stop being angry. If I stop protecting myself.”
He reaches over and threads our fingers together.
“You’re allowed to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and start living, Lila.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple. Since I ran, I’ve constantly been looking over my shoulder.”
“No, it’s not that simple,” he agrees. “But it’s worth it.”
The air thickens between us. His thumb moves across my knuckles slowly, like he’s memorizing the shape of me.
“You don’t have to run anymore,” he adds.
That undoes me. Completely.
I shift, curling into his side, letting his warmth soak into my skin. My head rests on his shoulder, and his arm wraps around me like it belongs there. We sit like that for a long time.
And for the first time since my life cracked apart, I think maybe love isn’t supposed to fix the broken things.
Maybe it just gives you a soft place to land while you heal.
The following morning, I try my hardest to ignore the urge to check the news. Deciding a shower is my best bet, I slip out of the comfort of Dean’s arms. The steady pattering of the water against the tile soothes me. Steam curls through theair, clinging to the bathroom mirror and sliding down the glass shower door like rain on a windowpane. I tilt my head back, let the hot water trail down my spine, and close my eyes. My muscles, still pleasantly sore from the night before, begin to unwind.
It's early, too early, technically, but after tossing and turning half the night thinking about Dean and Prescott, sleep had become impossible.
I run my hands over my arms, chasing away the goose bumps that have more to do with memory than temperature. Dean’s hands. Dean’s mouth. The way he looks at me like I’m something he’ll never stop craving.
I’m lost in the moment when the door opens.
I freeze mid-rinse, heart skittering in my chest. But it’s only Dean, sleep-mussed and shirtless wearing nothing but joggers that hang dangerously low on his hips. He doesn’t even flinch at the sight of me through the steam-covered glass.
“Morning,” he mumbles, his voice low and gravelly from sleep.
I should be mortified. Embarrassed. Something. But I’m not. Instead, I stare. Not even pretending not to.
Because Dean is beautiful. Disarmingly so. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions. His abs flex as he moves toward the sink. There’s a slight crease between his brows, like he hasn’t fully woken up, and the way his eyes flick to mine in the mirror lights my entire body up with awareness.
He gets to work on his morning routine. Spits mint foam into the sink, rinses, and then turns to face me, arms folded loosely across his chest.
“Well, this is a hell of a way to start the day,” he says, eyes raking over the foggy outline of my body behind the glass. “If I’d known there was going to be a view like this, I would’ve set an alarm.”
I laugh, breathless and a little giddy, and reach for the soap, grateful for the cover even if the glass is too clouded for him to see much.
“You could knock, you know.”
“I live here,” he counters with a grin. “Besides, we’re way past knocking, don’t you think?”
That makes me blush, heat blooming in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the shower.
Dean walks over slowly, stopping just short of the door. “Want company?”
I arch a brow. “Dean.”
“Kidding.” He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Mostly.”
“You’re terrible.”
