24. Violet
VIOLET
I'm sitting beside Drew, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
I could do this forever.
He glances over at me, the soft glow of the television flickering across his face. “Are you actually watching this?”
“Yes.”
His brows lift.
I look at the screen, where a woman is running through the woods in heels while a masked man follows at a pace that can only be described as mildly inconvenient.
Drew gives me a look.
I smile. “Mostly.”
He huffs out a laugh, quiet and warm, and something inside me curls tighter around the sound.
I want to keep it.
I want to keep him.
The pint of chocolate peanut butter ice cream sits open on the coffee table with two spoons beside it. I told him we didn’t need bowls. He looked concerned for exactly three seconds before giving in.
He glances at the ice cream, then at me. “You still full?”
I pat my stomach, eyes bouncing between him and the container. “What do you have in mind?”
He grins. “A contest. See who can eat the biggest bite. Without getting a headache.”
I laugh. “You sure you’re up to the challenge?”
He rubs his hands together. “Positive.”
I reach over to grab the spoon, but he snatches it up, then hands it to me, always a gentleman.
“On the count of three...” He gestures his spoon toward it.
We count down in unison, and when we hit three, we dig our spoons in, battling for the best position.
We’re laughing as we fight for the best bite.
Oh, no. He’s winning.
I move closer. So close I’m practically in his lap.
He freezes—and I make my move.
I scoop up a giant spoonful and shove it in my mouth.
He finally moves, coming out of the container with a small shovel-sized bite. He shoves it into his mouth, watching me closely.
I fight it, but the ice cream wins.
Hissing, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes.
“Mmmmhhhaaa,” comes from him.
I nearly choke from laughing.
“What?” I press my hand over my mouth, trying not to spit any out.
Drew manages to swallow the huge bite and throws his hands up triumphantly. “Haha! I won!”
I laugh as he jumps to his feet and wiggles his hips. He has no rhythm, but it’s adorable.
“I won. I won, I won, I won,” he says, still dancing—if you can call it that—circling the table.
He comes over and drops down beside me. “Whew. I’m sweating.”
“At least you’re not in a sugar coma.”
“True.”
I tuck my feet beneath me, turning slightly so I can watch him instead of the movie. “Do you want me to change the movie?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”
I shift slightly so I’m closer, waiting to see what he does.
When he doesn’t react, I smile.
Progress.
We settle in to watch the movie.
After a few minutes, Drew’s eyes begin to get heavy.
“Are you tired?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re blinking slower.”
“That’s not evidence.”
“It is if I’m building a case.”
His mouth curves. “What are you, a lawyer now?”
I grin. “Nah. That’s too boring.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I don’t see that as a viable career option for you.” His eyes slide to mine.
The humor softens there, thinning into something quieter. Something that makes the room feel smaller.
“Do you want me to leave? I can call my bro—"
“No. I like you being here.”
A slow, soft smile curls his lips. “Me too.”
The air is heavy and charged between us. I’m barely breathing, wondering if he’ll make a move.
He looks away first, staring back at the TV like there’s suddenly something fascinating about the woman tripping over absolutely nothing.
My smile grows.
He gets shy when something matters. Like he’s not used to being the focus of someone’s attention unless it’s to ask him for something.
I don’t need things from Drew.
I need him.
There’s a difference.
One he’ll understand eventually.
I shift closer, letting my shoulder brush his arm. He stills for half a breath, then relaxes.
Good.
I like how his body is starting to relax around me.
“You pick terrible movies,” he says after a minute.
“I picked a classic.”
“A woman just screamed at a toaster.”
“It startled her.”
“It was unplugged.”
“She’s been through a lot.”
His laugh breaks loose before he can stop it, and my chest warms so fast it almost hurts.
There he is. The real Drew.
Not the man with worry tucked into his shoulders.
This version.
Soft. Sleepy. Mine for the evening.
My gaze drops to his hand resting on his thigh. Long fingers. Warm skin. The faintest scar near one knuckle. I wonder how he got it. How old he was. Whether anyone kissed it better.
My fingers twitch.
I want to know all of him. Every scar. Every story. Every version he keeps hidden.
The movie drones on, music swelling dramatically as the woman discovers a basement she absolutely should not enter.
Drew gestures toward the screen. “Why do they always go into the basement?”
I tilt my head. “Maybe what she wants is down there.”
“What she wants is survival.”
“Maybe she wants answers more.”
He glances at me.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You’d go into the basement, wouldn’t you?”
I smile. “I’d already know what was in it.”
His expression shifts, amusement flickering with curiosity. “Why does that sound more ominous than comforting?”
“Because you’re very perceptive.”
He studies me for a second too long.
He studies me a beat too long.
Heat crawls up my neck. I reach for my spoon and take another bite of ice cream.
Drew watches me now instead of the movie.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“Maybe I’m mysterious.”
“You’re not.”
His brows rise. “I’m not?”
“No.” I lean back against the couch, studying him. “You’re careful. There’s a difference.”
The words land softly and precisely between us.
His face changes again, and I know I’ve touched a nerve.
I want to slide my fingers under every guarded part of him and pry gently until he opens for me.
But tonight isn’t for taking.
Tonight is for proving I can wait.
That I can let him come closer on his own.
Drew exhales, leaning back against the cushions. “Yeah,” he says after a moment. “Maybe.”
I soften my voice. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“It feels like one sometimes.”
My chest tightens.
There’s a crack. Small, but real.
I turn toward him fully. “Why?”
His throat works as he swallows.
For a second, I think he’s going to answer. To let me see past another locked door.
Then his eyes flick to the TV, and he gives me a faint smile. “Because careful gets boring.”
“No,” I say.
His gaze returns to mine.
“Careful keeps things from getting hurt. Keeps them... alive.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
There’s a brief flash of pain before he schools his expression.
I hate whoever made him think that careful means boring.
I hate every person who made him feel too quiet. Too cautious. Too easy to overlook.
Even before he knew I existed, I saw him.
And now he’s here on my couch. Looking at me like maybe—just maybe—he wants to believe me.
I smile gently. “Besides, boring men don’t let women they barely know convince them to share ice cream from the carton while watching a terrible horror movie.”
His mouth twitches. “I thought it was a classic.”
“Maybe it is.”
He laughs again, and the moment eases.
But I don’t forget.
I never forget anything about him.
His shoulders slowly sink back into the cushions. The tiredness catches up with him—the slow blink, the way his hand rests open on his thigh now, no longer curled in on itself.
He feels safe with me.
The thought settles somewhere deep.
I shift carefully, stretching out along the couch.
Drew looks down when my head comes to rest on his lap.
His whole body freezes.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Then I glance up at him through my lashes. “Is this okay?”
He stares at me, lips parted slightly, like the question short-circuited something in his brain.
Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says, voice rougher than before. “It’s okay.”
Warmth blooms beneath my cheek.
His thigh is firm under me, his body heat seeping through the soft fabric of his jeans. I turn slightly, settling in like this is natural. Like I’ve done it a hundred times before.
Like I was always meant to be here.
His hand hovers above my shoulder, trying so hard to do the right thing, even though I would let him do almost anything.
Finally, his fingers lower, brushing lightly over my hair. The touch is tentative. Barely there. Yet it still feels like a claim.
My eyes flutter for half a second.
He can claim me completely.
He strokes my hair again, a little more certain this time, and my throat tightens around something I refuse to name.
This is what people don’t understand about wanting.
Sometimes it isn’t loud.
Sometimes it doesn’t need teeth.
Sometimes it’s a hand in your hair while a terrible movie plays in the background and the man you’ve been waiting for forgets to be afraid of you.
I stare up at him while he watches the screen.
The light flickers over the underside of his jaw. His lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes. There’s a tiny line between his brows, like even half-relaxed, some part of him is still trying to solve a problem.
I want to smooth it away.
I want to be the one who makes that line disappear.
The movie keeps going.
I stop pretending to care.
My world narrows to the steady rise and fall of his chest. The warmth of his leg beneath my cheek. The slow, absent movement of his fingers through my hair.
I know the rhythm of his breathing when he’s nervous.
When he’s amused.
When he’s trying not to want something.
This is different.
Slower and heavier.
His hand stills.
I keep my eyes on him.
His chin dips once.
Then lifts.
Then dips again.
A smile curves my lips.
He’s trying to stay awake. For me.
Something tender and possessive opens inside my chest. “You can sleep,” I whisper.
His eyes blink open slowly, unfocused for a second before finding mine. “I’m not sleeping.”
“No?”
“No.”
His fingers move through my hair once more, but the motion is clumsy now. Sleepy.
I turn my face slightly into his thigh to hide my smile. “Okay.”
A few minutes later, his hand slips from my hair. His breathing evens. His head tips against the back of the couch.
And he falls asleep.
I don’t move at first.
Then I grab the blanket from the back of the couch and pull it over him before curling against his side.
His warmth surrounds me.
His breathing steadies me.
For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm chasing him.
I just... get to be here.
His hand slips against my waist in his sleep.
My breath catches.
He never wakes.
A smile curves my lips.
Even sleeping, some part of him reached for me.
A smile curls my lips.
I’m dreaming with my eyes wide open.