29. Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part Two
Claiming Protection Through Ice Cream And Whisky Part Two
~WILLA~
T he slide through my hair, gentle and repetitive, and for a moment I can't remember where I am.
The motion is soothing, almost hypnotic, pulling me up from the depths of sleep like a fisherman's patient line. My body feels heavy, weighted down by the kind of exhaustion that comes from finally, finally letting go.
When did I last sleep like this? Deep and dreamless, without jerking awake every hour convinced I smell smoke?
I keep my eyes closed, trying to piece together the fragments.
Feed store.
Blake's cruel words.
Cole's protective fury.
Mavi carrying me like I weighed nothing, kissing me like he had every right to?—
Oh. Oh no.
My eyes snap open to find the truck's console staring back at me, and for ten long seconds I just blink at it, brain refusing to process why I'm looking at cup holders and gear shifts instead of my bedroom ceiling.
The world tilts as understanding crashes in: I'm still in Mavi's truck.
Still wearing my clothes from this morning that probably smells like a barn floor.
Still using Mavi's shoulder as a pillow, apparently, because that's definitely his scent surrounding me—smoke and cinnamon and that edge of danger that should probably worry me more than it does.
How long have I been asleep?
The light outside has shifted, gone golden and soft in that way that means late afternoon is sliding toward evening. Hours, then. I've been unconscious against him for hours, probably drooling on his shirt like some kind of disaster human, while he just... what?
Sat there? Let me use him as furniture?
"You awake?" His voice is quiet, careful not to startle, but I feel it rumble through his chest where I'm pressed against him.
"You fell pretty hard asleep. Didn't want to wake you."
I should move.
Should sit up properly, apologize for treating him like a human pillow, create some appropriate distance between us.
Instead, I find myself tilting my head just slightly, still resting against his shoulder because it's warm and solid and I'm greedy for this feeling of safety I'd forgotten existed. Through my lashes, I can see his phone in his free hand, thumb moving across the screen with practiced ease.
I expect to see security footage, maybe. Email about background checks or surveillance equipment or whatever mysterious things occupy an ex-arson investigator's time.
What I absolutely do not expect is the cheerful cascade of candy combinations, the triumphant music that plays when he clears a level, the way his brow furrows in concentration as he studies the colorful grid.
"Is that..." I blink harder, sure I'm still dreaming. "Candy Crush?"
The thumb stills.
I watch a muscle in his jaw twitch, see the way his lips fight not to curve upward.
There's a glint in his green eyes when he glances down at me, playful and almost sheepish, so at odds with his usual intensity that my chest does something complicated.
"I'm gonna be the next champion, watch." He says it with such false seriousness that I can't help the laugh that bubbles up, surprising us both.
"Candy Crush," I repeat, because my brain still can't reconcile this image— Maverick Cross, all sharp edges and calculated moves, playing the most mundane mobile game in existence. "You. Playing Candy Crush."
"It's strategic," he defends, but his ears are turning pink. "Requires planning, pattern recognition, resource management?—"
"It's matching candy." The giggle escapes before I can stop it, and then I'm truly laughing, the kind that makes my whole body shake. "Oh my god, you're actually trying to justify—Mavi, it's Candy Crush!"
"And I'm very good at it," he says with wounded dignity, but he's fighting a smile now too, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Level 847, I'll have you know."
"Eight hundred—" I have to press my face into his shoulder to muffle my laughter. "How long have you been playing?"
"A while." He's definitely blushing now, and it's possibly the most endearing thing I've ever seen. This man who probably knows a dozen ways to kill someone with a paperclip, reduced to embarrassment over a mobile game addiction.
My laughter finally subsides into occasional giggles, and I realize I'm still pressed against him, probably overstaying my welcome in his personal space. But when I start to shift away, his arm comes around my shoulders, holding me gently in place.
"How'd you sleep?" The question is soft, loaded with genuine concern. "You were out cold for almost three hours."
Three hours.
I've been using him as a pillow for three hours, and he just... let me. The thought creates warmth in my chest that has nothing to do with physical temperature.
"Best sleep I've had in ages," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty. "I usually can't—since the fire, I don't sleep well. Always waking up thinking I smell smoke, or that I'm trapped, or..." I trail off, not wanting to dump my trauma on him.
"Cole mentioned you've never nested." His tone is carefully neutral, but I can feel the tension in his shoulder where my head still rests. "That Iron Ridge never taught you about it."
The familiar shame creeps up my spine. Another basic Omega thing I'm supposed to know but don't. "I haven't, no.
Guess I didn't realize it was a bad thing that would catch up to me.
" I try for casual, like this massive gap in my education doesn't bother me.
"I'll look into it when we get back, see what I need and if it fits the budget?—"
"Whoa." He shifts to look at me properly, eyebrow arched in a way that makes my stomach flip. "When it comes to you, everything fits in the budget. In fact," his voice drops, goes serious in a way that brooks no argument, "there is no budget when it comes to you."
Heat floods my cheeks.
"Mavi, you can't just?—"
"I can and I will." His fingers find my hair again, gentle but possessive. "We take care of what's ours, Willa. That includes making sure you have everything you need to feel safe and actually rest."
Ours.
The word sits between us, heavy with implication. I should protest, should establish boundaries, should do something other than melt under his touch like chocolate in the sun. Instead, I duck my head, overwhelmed by the casual declaration of care.
"Are you hungry?" He changes the subject smoothly, probably sensing my emotional overload. "There's a place?—"
"I'm fine," I say quickly, not wanting to impose more than I already have. "We should probably just head back?—"
My stomach chooses that moment to release a growl so loud it echoes in the truck's cabin. We both freeze, staring at my midsection like it's personally betrayed me. Which, honestly, it has.
"That," Mavi says slowly, "did not sound fine."
I groan, covering my face with my hands.
"My body has no sense of timing or loyalty."
He chuckles, the sound rich and warm.
"Restaurant we passed is closed by now, but there's this ice cream whisky bar that has the best chicken wings. If you're up for it?"
"Chicken wings?" The words come out almost reverent, and I peek at him through my fingers. "I don't even remember the last time I had actual wings."
"Then we're going." He's already reaching for the ignition, decision made. "Fair warning though—they're messy. Hope you don't mind getting your fingers dirty."
"Are you kidding? Eating wings with a fork and knife is..." I search for the right word, "diabolical. Absolutely diabolical. Some kind of crime against food."
He actually cringes at the thought, whole body shuddering.
"Who even does that?" Then he catches himself, rolling his eyes. "Never mind. We're not acknowledging that as a possibility. We ain't doing that shit, period."
I laugh again— when did I become someone who laughs so easily? —and start to shift upright. His arm tightens around my shoulders, keeping me in place.
"Rest a bit more," he says, starting the engine with his free hand. "Place is a little ways out. Twenty minutes, maybe."
"As long as you don't let me sleep for eternity," I bargain, already settling back against him. It's too easy, this surrender to comfort. Too tempting to just exist in this bubble where I'm allowed to be tired and taken care of.
"Deal." His thumb traces a pattern on my shoulder through the silk dress, and I close my eyes, not to sleep but just to feel. To memorize this moment of simple kindness, of being held without expectation or demand.
Twenty minutes.
I can give myself twenty more minutes of this before reality intrudes again. Twenty minutes of pretending this is my life now—men who play Candy Crush and declare me worth any budget, who let me drool on their shirts and feed me chicken wings. Who hold me like I'm precious instead of problematic.
Maybe I'm still dreaming. But if I am, I don't want to wake up just yet.
The giggle escapes before I can stop it, high and bright and absolutely ridiculous.
Everything seems hilarious right now—the way the bar lights fracture into starbursts, how Mavi's eyebrow does that thing where it climbs toward his hairline, the fact that I just knocked back my third shot like it was apple juice instead of something that tastes like smoke and bad decisions.
"Handle alcohol my ass." Mavi shakes his head, but I can see him fighting amusement. His eyes track my movements like I might topple off the barstool at any moment, which is insulting and probably accurate. "You said you could pace yourself."
"I totally can!" I insist, then have to grab the bar when the world tilts slightly. "And you're just jealous because I ate your ice cream fair and square."
"Fair and square?" He leans back, arms crossing over his chest in a way that makes his shirt stretch interesting across his shoulders. Not that I'm noticing. Much. "You cheated."
"How?" I demand, offended on behalf of my definitely-legitimate ice cream victory. "How does one cheat at ice cream bets?"
He points an accusing finger at my face.