Chapter 46
FORTY-SIX
SIERRA
IT’S MIDNIGHT WHEN I nudge my boyfriend awake with a pair of shears in my grip.
Dylan stirs, pats the empty space beside him, then snaps his head toward me. He blinks.
We’ve spent this past week training to prepare for the Grand Prix.
I’ve barely been sleeping since we found out we’re the new host pick.
It turns out, both Julia and Justin were dabbling in a performance enhancer called trimetazidine.
Somehow, they got away with it for the entire season, but the closer they got, the more desperate they grew.
Justin had been on his high horse since I partnered with Dylan after his failed drug test, but now he’s ruined his career.
They’ve been in hiding since the news broke.
But none of that matters because it’s me and Dylan in their spot now, and we won’t screw it up.
During our meeting with Lidia, we were surprised to see her so giddy while outlining our plan for the Grand Prix.
We’re performing as Rapunzel and Flynn but adjusting our final lift to boost scores.
I made Dylan practice the new lift with me on a mattress at the house.
That didn’t last long, because he quickly pinned me to it.
“I love it when you point sharp things at me,” Dylan drawls, his voice thick with sleep.
“But I thought you just wanted to cuddle tonight?” The bathroom light illuminates the lazy slant of his smile, the heavy-lidded warmth in his eyes, and the way he watches me like I’m the only thing worth looking at.
How did I get so lucky that he was the one who found me?
I roll my eyes. “Do you ever think about anything else?”
“Not when you’re looking at me like that.” Dylan’s gaze roams over me, slow and shameless, as he folds his arms behind his head. “Care to explain why you’re threatening me with scissors? Or should I lay down a towel and let you have your way with me?”
“I want you to cut my hair,” I say.
Dylan sits up, the comforter pooling at his waist as he tugs me forward. I brace for hesitation, for a joke, for a You sure about this? Maybe even a protest that he likes it long, or that I should sleep on it.
Instead, he replies, “Okay.”
No hesitation. No questions. Just okay. Dylan takes the scissors and leads me to his bathroom. My gaze coasts over the broad lines of his bare back, the way his boxers hang on his hips, and the muscles in his thighs.
The bathroom is still steamy from our shower.
Dylan wipes the mirror and pulls me in front of it.
We’ve stood here countless times before, but now a dull feeling of anxiety swirls in my stomach.
His hands rest on either side of me on the marble countertop.
His breath brushes my neck, then he trails three slow kisses along my jaw.
“How short?” he asks, his warm chest pressing gently against my back.
The metal shears on the counter catch the light, their cold gleam making my fingers twitch at my sides, doubt curling in the edges of my resolve. A part of me hoped he’d talk me out of it like everyone else. The last time I wanted this, my partner said it wouldn’t look presentable to the judges.
Upstairs, Kian’s latest vinyl hums a moody love song. I stare at my reflection, at the length of my hair. It feels like dead weight now. I force out a breath, steeling myself. “Have you ever cut hair before?”
Dylan rests his chin on my shoulder. “I used to trim Ada’s hair because she hated going to the salons. She said I sucked. But for you? I’ll make sure it’s perfect. Promise.”
“Just a few inches,” I decide.
Dylan nods. “Whatever you say, baby.”
“You don’t think it’s too much?” The insecurity slips into my voice when I meet his gaze in the mirror.
“I like what you like,” he says, his voice low and husky. “Besides, it doesn’t matter how short you go as long as I can still pull it.” He fists my hair and gives it a light tug. I glare. He grins.
When he slides the hair tie down, I realize he’d do this without hesitation. Simply because I asked him to.
I spin to catch his wrist before he can make the first cut. “You’re seriously not going to stop me?” I ask, taking the scissors. “This could easily be … I don’t know, a sign of psychosis or something.”
Dylan leans forward, utterly unfazed. “Good thing I like my woman a little crazy.”
I shove at his chest. He barely moves, simply catching my wrist to pull me closer.
His gaze softens, melting like ice on a hot summer day.
“You don’t make impulsive decisions. If you’re asking for this, I know it’s something you’ve wanted for a while.
And even if it is impulsive, I’m proof those decisions aren’t all bad.
You kissed me and look how that turned out.
” His grin stretches. “Trust yourself, Sierra.”
Dylan places his hand over my heart, over the wild rhythm. Like he already knew. I press mine to his chest, syncing to his steadiness, grounding myself in him.
One deep inhale. One final look at him. I face the mirror.
“Short,” I decide. “Here.” I touch just above my shoulders before I can second-guess it.
Dylan brushes through the strands, sections them with care, slightly off-center, and then cuts right where I pointed.
When he hands me the severed length of my hair, my eyes sting, and I feel a bit of pride take hold of my chest. It’s me, and it’s new.
I love it even more when Dylan tips my chin up, his eyes soft and shimmering, and whispers “Beautiful” against my lips.
I’VE ALREADY MADE myself comfortable in Dylan’s bed with Kian’s new kitten—the poor stray he found outside Lola’s Diner thanks to the powers of the cat distribution system—on my chest when Dylan comes back from an evening lecture.
I went back to the dorm to check on Scarlett, but she wasn’t there. When I texted her, she promised to be back for a late dinner.
Now I’m studying in Dylan’s room, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating my textbook.
I cuddle with Whiskers, but the second my boyfriend walks in, the minx bolts to the edge of the bed.
Dylan scoops him up, cradling him against his chest. Whiskers purrs and licks his face.
I can’t blame him. But ever since Kian’s found out about this new development, he’s been trying to win back the kitten’s affection.
“Trying to steal my girlfriend, Whiskers?”
The cat meows in response, and Dylan steps out of his room, and I hear a loud “My baby! Did he hurt you?” Before Dylan returns, locking the door behind him.
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 comfortable weight 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?”
He hums, staring up at the ceiling. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Thanksgiving,” he says.
I tilt my head. “Favorite holiday?”
“Least.”
I nod. “I’m more of a Halloween girl myself.”
Dylan finally looks at me, liquor-colored eyes warm as he studies me.
He doesn’t smile, and I sit up straight. “Is Thanksgiving a big deal in your family?”
“No, it’s the first time since I moved out that my mom’s gone this long without calling or texting me. She loves Thanksgiving, and she didn’t send me an invite.”
I play with the chain around his neck. “Why don’t you give her another call?”
“Yeah, maybe I will,” he says.
From the looks of it, he won’t be doing that, but I don’t comment on his noncommittal response. “You could call your sister. I’m sure she’s going home for fall break.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Or …” I pause, planting a kiss on his chin. “You could come home with me.”
That gets his attention. “You want me to meet the parents already?”
I roll my eyes. “You already met my mom when you invited yourself to my house,” I say. “But this time, I’m inviting you.”
“That’s very nice of you. Charitable, even.”
“Anything for a good cause, and my parents were asking me if you were going to come,” I say, watching his smile bloom. “So, will you?”
“Yeah, baby, I’ll come.”
When he calls me that, it feels like everything is right in the world.