Chapter 18 #3
I couldn’t resist the urge to be a brat. “Now who’s being circumlocutory? You could have just said ‘kiss me,’ you know.”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And he did.
His lips crashed against mine, all urgency and heat that had nothing to do with the Thai chili and everything to do with him. My hands found their way to his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as he pulled me closer.
The warmth from his body rivaled the lingering fire of my green curry, creating a perfect blend of flavors and sensations that made my head spin. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, drawing a moan from me.
I could have happily explored all night, mapping every inch of his mouth, but Ryker pulled back, his cheeks flushed and breathing uneven.
He nodded toward the TV. “As much as I’m enjoying this, the ghost funeral is reaching its dramatic conclusion.”
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically, settling against the couch. “But I’m holding you to a continuation of this discussion later.”
Ryker grinned, grabbing the remote and pressing play. “It’s a date.”
On the screen, Marty, with tears in his eyes, stepped up to the podium to do a dramatic reading of a passage from a dissertation he’d blindly pulled from the closest shelf behind him.
“In honor of today’s solemn celebration, Minerva has asked me to read her favorite passage from A Statistical Analysis of Left Sock Disappearance in Residential Laundry Settings. ”
He flipped to a random page to read aloud as Ryker and I snickered.
“‘The p-value of 0.0478 suggests a statistically significant correlation between the disappearance of left socks and lunar cycles, particularly during the waxing gibbous phase when paired with fabric softener use exceeding 2.3 capfuls.’”
Marty’s voice cracked, making us howl with laughter as he continued.
“‘This groundbreaking discovery challenges our fundamental understanding of both laundry science and possibly the very fabric of the spacetime continuum itself.’” He closed the dissertation, nodding solemnly during his performance, which made it even funnier with each rewatch.
“Wise words, Minerva. Thank you for letting us honor your knowledge from beyond.”
We lost our shit when he clutched the book to his chest, looked heavenward, and whispered, “Your academic journey is complete, Minerva. Your dedication to sock science will never be forgotten.”
Dr. Shade, with profound gravitas, held up a diploma that looked like it was done last-minute by an unskilled intern.
“With this conferral of your posthumous PhD, your scholarship on the intersubjective nature of paranormal-textual engagement has ensured your permanent place in the pantheon of post-corporeal academic achievement.”
It was a mystery to me how she could deliver lines like that with a completely straight face. Ryker and I kept riffing off it as the episode wrapped up.
The comfortable ritual of mocking our favorite ridiculous show felt both unchanged and completely different now that we were dating for real. Our synchronized eye rolls and inside jokes about “spectral academic validation” hummed with a new harmony.
As the credits rolled, Ryker yawned behind his hand.
“Tired?” I asked, resisting the urge to pull him into my arms.
“A little,” he admitted. “Driving always wears me out.”
“Want to watch the next episode, or are you done?”
He hesitated, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. “Maybe we should call it a night. It’s been a long day.”
“Sounds good to me.” I stood up and gathered our plates, taking them to the kitchen sink. When I returned, Ryker was still sitting on the couch, looking uncertain.
“So…” he started, then trailed off.
“So,” I echoed, understanding the unspoken question hanging between us but wanting him to ask it.
We hadn’t discussed sleeping arrangements since getting home. At his parents’ house, sharing a bed had been a given, both for our cover story and because we’d wanted to. But in our apartment with separate bedrooms, the decision wasn’t as clear-cut.
“I meant what I said earlier,” I told him, sitting back down beside him. “No pressure for anything. If you want space tonight, I completely understand. Being around your family nonstop for a week is enough to make anyone need some alone time.”
“It’s not that. I’m confused because I don’t know what the protocol is here. Are we sleeping together now? Separately? I don’t want to assume.”
“There’s no protocol,” I assured him. “We can do whatever feels right. If you prefer to sleep in your own bed tonight, I won’t be upset. And if you want company…” I let the offer hang in the air.
Ryker fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “What do you want?”
“Honestly?” I met his eyes. “I’d love to stay with you. But I care more about your comfort, so if it’s not what you need, then that’s fine.”
He nodded, seeming to weigh his options. “I’d like to do that,” he said, the admission soft but clear. “If that’s okay.”
My heart did a full-on Broadway kick line in my chest, but my expression stayed neutral. “More than okay. My room or yours?”
“Yours,” he decided. “It’s less messy.”
I laughed. “Only because I keep my clothes in my closet instead of on the ‘floordrobe’ like you.” I stole a quick kiss, still marveling that I could do that. “Come on, let’s go to bed. I’ve got clean sheets and everything.”
“Such a gentleman,” he teased, following me down the hallway to my bedroom.
I turned off the bedside lamp after finishing our nightly routine, plunging the room into darkness. With a few awkward adjustments, Ryker settled against my side, his head resting on my shoulder. “Is this okay?”
“Perfect.”
We lay in comfortable silence for a while, the only sound our synchronized breathing. I couldn’t decide what was better: falling asleep with my best friend or knowing I’d wake up with him in the morning. Both felt like gifts I never thought I’d receive.
“Harley?” Ryker’s voice was soft, already heavy with approaching sleep.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad we’re doing this. For real, I mean.”
“You and me both,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Though I should warn you that this means my room is now officially ‘our room.’”
He lifted his head slightly. “Does it now?”
“Absolutely. It’s basic relationship math. Your stuff plus my stuff equals our stuff. Your presence plus my bed equals our bed.” I gestured grandly in the darkness. “Welcome to the first night of our domestic empire.”
“What happens to my room?” he asked, amusement clear in his voice.
“Oh, that becomes the guest room. Or maybe a home gym. Or—and hear me out—we convert it into a shrine dedicated to our past lives.”
“A shrine to our past lives?” Ryker scoffed.
“Absolutely. We’ll section it off by era. One corner for our mythical past lives. Maybe some tasteful horseshoes mounted on the wall.”
“I’m pretty sure unicorns didn’t wear horseshoes.”
“Fine, no horseshoes. But we definitely need a little yak herder display. Some miniature yaks made of felt. Oh! And for your God of War period, we could mount some decorative weapons.”
“You’ve given this way too much thought in the last thirty seconds.”
“I’m an idea man, Ryker. It’s what I do.” I ran my fingers through his hair. “We’ll need to leave space for the alpaca exhibit, of course. That’s nonnegotiable.”
“Of course,” he deadpanned. “Are we calling it the Maylin Museum of Madness?”
“We could make her a special plaque by the door that says, ‘Official Past Life Historian and Accidental Matchmaker.’”
“My mom would want co-credit for the matchmaking.”
“Your mom gets the gift shop. She can sell little commemorative T-shirts that say, ‘My son dated his roommate and all I got was this lousy T-shirt.’”
Ryker’s laughter shook the bed. “Stop, I’m trying to sleep.”
“Sleep? In our brand-new shared bedroom? When we could be planning our past-life shrine business model?” I kissed his forehead. “Fine, we can discuss admission prices tomorrow over breakfast.”
He snorted. “You’re so ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” I replied automatically. “In this life and apparently several others.”
“Mmm,” he hummed, nestling closer. “We should remember to leave room in the shrine for whatever we become next time.”
My heart did a little flip at his casual acceptance of our future together, both in this life and beyond. “Already planning our next incarnation, huh?”
“Someone has to. Otherwise, you’d probably volunteer us to come back as something ridiculous like flamingos.”
“Flamingos are majestic creatures. And I look fabulous in pink.”
His only response was a soft snore.
I took pity on him. “Sweet dreams, soul mate,” I whispered. “May all our past and future lives be as perfect as this one.”