Page 131 of Revolve
He comes to me, carefully moving my textbook off the bed before cocooning my whole body with his, and humming into my neck. He’s not as exhausted physically as he was a few weeks ago, but I can tell he’s mentally drained. He’s been worried about his mom a lot these past few days. When he finally gave up and decided to call her, she didn’t answer. He’s been on edge ever since.
“Quiet moment?” I whisper.
“Quiet moment,” he says.
We stay like that for a while. I’m pressed under his comfortableweight and he shifts so he doesn’t squish me. When he rolls us over, I’m on top of him. He tucks some of my newly shortened hair behind my ear. “Hi, baby.”
I smile like an idiot.
“How much would it cost me to make sure you’d be here, in my bed, every time I come home?” he asks.
“That’s a steep price.”
“I’m willing to pay it.”
“Not a very good negotiator,” I say. “And you’re the one getting the business degree.”
This look he gives me—the same one I’ve seen just moments after he kisses me—drills a hole in my chest. “Seems I lose my head around you.”
“Understandable. I’ll have my lawyers get back to you, then.”
Dylan plays with the ends of my hair. “Did you notice anything different?”
“About you?” I study him for a moment. “Your biceps are bigger, and you lift me even more easily than you used to.”
A smirk tugs at the corners of his lips; he’s clearly pleased. “I’m flattered you’re paying so much attention to the changes in my body, Romanova,” he says. “But I mean, did you notice anything in this room?”
I lift my head to glance around. His desk still holds the same open textbook, though now flipped to a different page. The picture of him and his sister sits in its usual spot, while another picture, the one of us, is framed and hung on his wall.
“Nothing?” he asks.
I shake my head as Dylan leans over, his arm brushing past me to flick off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Though there’s a tiny spark of fear that flares under my ribs, having him this close makes it puff away almost instantly.
Then a faint glow appears in the darkness, growing brighter. I glance around. The blinds are closed, and our phones aren’t anywhere in sight.
“What is that?” I whisper, breaking the stillness.
Dylan lies back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and juts his chin toward the ceiling. I follow his gaze, and my breath catches.
Above us, the ceiling is covered in smiley faces. So many of them, probably hundreds, glowing softly in a warm yellow-green hue. They shine gently, creating a quiet world just for us.
“Why’d you do that?” I ask.
“Why do you think, Sierra?”
I swallow hard. Being in this bed, in his arms, with the reminder of his thoughts when I’m not here right above me, feels like the weight of the sun. Because what I’ve realized about scars is that they’re always there, but it doesn’t have to mean they’re not healed.
Dylan sits up, peeling off his hoodie and the shirt underneath in one fluid motion. I lift the comforter, and he shifts beneath it. His heavy leg drapes over mine, locking me into his embrace. “Thank you,” I whisper, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stickers.
He holds me a little tighter than usual. Like he knows I won’t slip away now but still wants me this close anyway. Dylan’s calloused hand slips down my spine, and under the hem of my T-shirt.
“Are these my boxers?” he asks when his finger hooks under the elastic waistband, snapping it back.
“Why? Want them back?”
He chuckles softly by my ear. “You’re trouble.”
I listen to the rhythm of his breathing as it slows, each exhale growing softer. But when I look up, he’s still lost in thought. I reach for his hand. “You okay?”
