43
Valentina
The thing about dating a guy who is destined to be a Rockstar is that there is always music playing.
And the thing about always having music playing is you learn songs you never thought you’d listen to.
Some songs pop up here and there that I know a few words to, but for the most part, I’m just here to be with Huxley.
Right now, he’s reviewing assignments for his class while I’m cleaning.
His apartment.
I’m bored.
I sweep over the same section of floor for the third time when a new song filters into the room. The haunting piano melody stops me.
I know this song. Mostly. But it’s enough to give me an idea.
Huxley looks up at me as I walk into the room. His eyes trace over me like any other time he looks at me, but he stops when he sees the broom in my hand.
“Are you cleaning?” he asks, still eyeing the broom.
“I was.” I pull the broom in front of me, the top just reaching my chin.
His eyes jump to mine. “You aren’t anymore?” He glances at the broom. “Then why are you carrying that around?”
The chorus of the song begins to play, and I lean toward the broom, pretending it’s a microphone as I sing along.
Huxley’s eyes widen. “You know this song?”
I nod softly, nervously, as I continue to sing, all while Huxley watches me.
I don’t normally like attention, but his I crave. The look in his eyes is one I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him. But that makes me relax more into my mini performance.
My body moves disjointedly along to the dramatic melody, which isn’t sexy by any means, but Huxley’s eyes follow every move I make.
The next verse comes up, but I don’t know these words as well. I stop and listen, trying to pick up the lyrics, but only one sticks out.
Clowns.
My eyes land on Huxley, widened with shock. “I didn’t know it said that.”
My smile spreads on his face in an attempt to stop his laughter. He looks more at peace in this moment. There’s a calmness to his features, one that feels comfortable. One, I never want to leave.
The lyrics of the second chorus come back to me, and I continue my poor excuse of dancing, moving my hands in a gesture like the shape of a body while singing about the joy of rediscovering you.
Huxley laughs at my gesture, bringing a lightness to my heart and an overwhelming urge to get closer to him.
Fuck it.
I take slow steps up to him, still singing along, and Huxley’s smile never falters. That is, until I straddle his lap. His eyes widen while his hands naturally find my hips.
I don’t stop dancing or singing. I’m having too much fun. I don’t remember the last time I felt this free, this allowed to be myself. But with Huxley here, I’m not afraid.
The song fades, and Huxley tightens his grip, making me highly aware of the position we’re in. “Sorry,” I mumble, suddenly nervous. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
I try to push myself off, but Huxley grips my hips tighter. “Kiss me,” he begs, pleading eyes staring up at me on his lap.
I nod like he asked for permission, slowly leaning forward, but Huxley surprises me by meeting me halfway. The kiss is stronger than I expected, but I won’t ever complain. My fingers grip through his hair as he pulls me closer.
I could die like this.
Losing my breath in a kiss with Huxley Adams seems like the best way to go.
But he pulls away. So I guess today isn’t that day.
“I love this version of you,” he says deeply. He twists the hem of my shirt, pulling a deeper breath from my lungs. “You in my shirt, dancing and singing around my apartment without a care in the world.”
His other hand brushes through my hair and travels down to my neck, sending shivers down my spine. I sink into his touch, feeling safe in his hold.
Remember what I said about not liking attention but craving his? I’m pretty sure the same goes for touch. I only ever want to be touched by Huxley Adams. Now, forever, always. Just his touch and his alone can make me feel this way.
“I kind of like this version of me, too,” I whisper. And I mean that.
Finding a reason to like myself can be hard some days, and most days I don’t even try because it hurts too much. But right now is different. Right now, I don’t feel the need to hide or pretend like I’m someone else.
Huxley stares up at me. I stare back at him.
And I am calm.
I am safe.
I am me.
My smile spreads on his face. “I love hearing that.” His thumb brushes over my lips, catching my breath in the back of my throat. His eyes trace his thumb's movement as he whispers, “So beautiful.”
And for the first time, maybe ever, I think I believe him. And believing him gives me a rush of confidence. Without thinking too hard about it, I reach for his phone.
“What are you doing?”
I continue typing in the lyrics, hoping I find the right song. It’s been years since I’ve listened to it, but the lyrics flow through my head like it was yesterday. I scroll through covers until a music video pops up with over a billion views.
Wow. This song is more popular than I thought.
With a deep breath, I hit play. “I’m playing you my favorite song.”
His eyes soften, knowing how important this is to me.
I told him once that our favorite songs are the most important favorites we have because of how vulnerable they make us feel.
But all I want is to be vulnerable with him.
I want him to see me and understand me. I want him in my mind, which is something even I’m afraid of sometimes.
But he’s stronger than me. And if he’s in my mind, I know he’ll keep me safe.
Huxley strokes my wrists as we listen to the start of the song, grounding me and reminding me that he’s here. Which I desperately need to be reminded of because as the lyrics start to filter through the air, tears well in my eyes, and I struggle to contain them.
Morgan used to sing these words to me. Words that I’ll never hear in her voice again. Words that let me know she loved me. That I was loved, even if only for a short time, by the first person who made me want to live.
The tears break free, and I’m full-on crying.
Hand over mouth, trying not to scream, crying.
Huxley wraps his arms around me, and I sink into his touch.
The safety of his arms feels like a childhood blanket that you cling to during a nightmare—a shield of armor in the war against my thoughts and memories that try to pull me down.
He gently tugs on my hair, lifting my head so I can look at him.
“Look at the stars,” he sings softly, and my heart nearly gives out. “Look how they shine for you. And all the things that you do.”
My forehead falls to his chest, tears still streaming as I cry even harder. His voice mixes with Morgan's in my head, creating a harmony of strength that wraps around my heart.
He strokes my hair softly, letting me calm down, giving me the time I desperately need. When my breath comes out normal, and I stop shaking in his hold, he whispers, “Why is that your favorite song?”
I get his confusion. Most people don’t bawl their eyes out to their favorite song. I pull back and look into his eyes. Eyes that make me want to spill all my secrets. But Morgan is different.
She’s a piece of me I can never get back. And even though it’s irrational to think this, my mind tells me that if Huxley knows about her, she won’t be just mine anymore.
Morgan’s memory belongs to me and Will. And I’m not ready to share her just yet.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whisper back.
He smiles softly in understanding, wiping away my tears that have finally calmed down. I pull in a deep breath, clearing my throat, and ask, “What’s your favorite song, Huxley Adams?”
His hand freezes on my face, giving me pause as well. I thought he wanted to know our favorite songs on our first date. Why is he nervous now? He swallows roughly and looks up at me. “Don’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
He doesn’t answer as he reaches for his phone.
He presses a few buttons, and then a song starts to play.
It sounds like it’s from the '50s or '60s, which shocks me. I really thought Huxley’s favorite song would be from the ‘80s—a rock ballad or something with a heavy pounding rhythm. Or anything Bon Jovi, really.
I don’t recognize the song until the man starts to sing, and Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You filters through the air.
My eyes widen as the song plays through his phone. “Are you serious?”
Huxley looks away from me, embarrassment pulling a frown on his face.
I softly reach for him. “No. Huxley, look at me.” He doesn’t. “It’s a great song.”
“You’re making fun of me,” he murmurs. I brush my fingers through his hair, trying to hold in my laughter. Not from the song choice, but from how pouty he is right now.
“I’m not.” I try again to pull his face to me. “Huxley.”
He pushes me gently, so I move off his lap as he stands from the couch. “I’m just a little shocked, Huxley. Please.”
The instrumental of the song starts to play, and Huxley turns around. But he doesn’t just turn around, he’s…dancing?
Oh my god.
He’s dancing.
My eyes widen, and my hand covers my mouth. “What is happening?”
I swear I’ve never seen someone so categorically hot be so unbelievably adorable. Huxley picks up the broom I was singing into earlier and starts singing along to the song.
God, I love his voice. I could listen to him sing all day, every day, and still never grow tired of it.
Suddenly, he moves forward, pulling me from the couch—spinning me, dipping me, dancing me around the room. My laughter fills the air as my chest expands with overwhelming happiness.
I’ve never seen him like this. I never thought I would see him like this. Huxley Adams keeps himself pretty closed off to those around him, and he doesn’t stray from his specific image—the version of himself that he believes he has to be.
But this.
This has to be what it feels like to be comfortable with the person you’re with. Being yourself in ways that no one else sees. And he’s showing it to me.
As the song fades out, I look up into Huxley’s eyes that shine a different brightness than I’ve seen before.
“Kiss me.” I barely get the words out before his lips are on mine. His fingers tangle into my hair, pulling me with him until he falls back onto the couch. I giggle as he eagerly pulls me onto his lap, our lips connecting again like we were never apart.
My hands pull on his shirt, trying to get closer, needing to be closer. But Huxley leans back, glancing at my hands.
“You want me to take my shirt off?” he asks, his voice rough from the kiss. I look at my hands and the amount of skin I’ve exposed from pulling his shirt. It wasn’t my intention, but I do want to see him.
I nod just enough to be noticeable, and he swiftly pulls his shirt over his head.
My eyes fall to his chest, my fingers following the same path, tracing lines over the beautiful artwork that covers his skin. There are a few empty spots, but most of his skin is covered, and I drink in every detail.
Huxley’s fingers gently trace the hem of my shirt, pulling a shuddered breath from my lungs.
“I’m not ready,” I whisper.
I wish I was. I wish I could take my shirt off and let him run his hands over my chest. He’s technically done it before, just over my shirt. But touching me and seeing me are two completely different things—one of which will take a lot longer for me to be ready for.
“That’s okay,” he whispers back.
I trace over the wings of a phoenix on his chest to distract myself from the flood of thoughts that want to take over my mind.
“What was your first tattoo?” I ask softly.
Something I can’t explain flashes in his eyes. Something that makes me halt my movements on his chest.
“It’s um…” He reaches up and touches his left shoulder. “It’s up here on my shoulder.”
I slip off his lap, and he turns for me to see his back, where even more tattoos cover his skin.
“Which one is it?”
“It says ‘Set Me Free.’”
My eyes find the simple tattoo on the back of his left shoulder. Other tattoos nearly cover it, but the delicate etching of the words still pokes through. I gently trace his skin, feeling the heavy weight of the words resting on my chest, too personal to ask about.
My hand falls, and Huxley turns back to face me before I think too deeply about it.
“When did you get it?” I ask.
“The day after I turned 18.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
He weakly smiles and looks down at my hands. “You know.” He grabs them and pulls gently. “We were kind of in the middle of something when you made me take my shirt off.”
I bite my lip and let him pull me back onto his lap, easily falling back into our kiss from before, the heaviness of the conversation slipping away.
Huxley pulls back a second later and whispers, “You're just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.”
My breath hitches as his hands slide up my thighs to my back. He smirks and continues to sing. “You’d be like Heaven to touch. I wanna hold you so much.”
His arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against his chest, and I can only pray he can’t feel the rush of my heart while we’re this close. “You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.”
I pull him back in for another kiss, my hands touching every inch of skin he has exposed. And he matches me, touch for touch.
Whimpers leave my throat, but we don’t stop. Because Huxley knows I’ll tell him if he can touch me somewhere else.
Right now, though, I’m content with this feeling.
Just our gentle touches and our loss of breath.
Just Huxley.
Just me.
Just us.