Chapter 13
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Cotton candy disasters.
Morana
Dabbing cotton candy clouds all over Kyran’s room has a marvelous kick to it.
I cannot express how much the white and black has bored me to tears.
But now, after tossing his boring bed into a guest room, painting over his black walls with white until they finally gave in, and getting pinks and blues settled into the space, I am correcting the sin.
Kyran now lives in a pretty e-boy bedroom.
Horror stories, consider yourselves banished.
Or else.
On the side of the room I’ve already finished painting, Kyran sits at the top of a ladder, securing the chain for his brand-new ice-blue sensory swing. Because, ahem, I have always wanted one, and this is the perfect opportunity for some vicarious living.
Beyond my blatantly taking advantage of the situation, something about seeing it all come apart and then back together in semi-permanent ways has my spirit settling.
Ever since last week—when preparation, ordering, and tear up began—a steady feeling of peace has grown. Up until the fifth coat of white went on the walls, I didn’t quite believe that we were really doing this, that Kyran was really letting me overhaul his whole bedroom however I saw fit.
Now, it’s clear.
There’s a bolt in his ceiling where there wasn’t one before.
It’s soothing to know that he meant it when he said he’d weave us together in ways that wouldn’t easily come apart.
Without a single complaint or protest, he’s let me carve myself into his personal space as though this past week hasn’t been a significant amount of labor.
To undo what I’ve done now would be exhausting, and on his own I’m not certain he has the stamina for it.
He’s very meh sometimes. Real go with the flow.
It’s why whenever he gets serious about something, the contrast is so stark it’s almost unsettling.
When he’s serious, it’s like he gathers all the energy he’s been saving up and laser focuses.
Nothing will keep him from his goals.
He’s determined.
Passionate…
Committed.
And, if I’m honest, I’m starting to miss the taste of him a lot more than I will ever admit to.
Now that my bruises are yellowing, every cell in my body is complaining that I need new ones.
He reawakened desires I’ve tried not to think about since the days when I let them take too much of a hold of me and guide me toward less-than-wise decisions.
“Hm?” he murmurs, attention fixed on setting up the safety equipment for the swing. “What is it, mistress?”
“Mm?” I swallow, return to my cloud dabbing. “Oh. Nothing.” I’m definitely not thinking about finishing up here, waiting for the paint to dry, working on setting up all your new furniture, then seeing what it would take to get you to pin me to some of it…
I, unlike you, am capable of controlling myself.
And that’s why I always have.
Without any slip ups…
At all…
Ever…
And here I thought hormones back in high school were impossible to wrangle. I’ve never before been this subjected to how difficult it is when you want someone like this…and are often alone with them…in private spaces…
Man, Kyran’s been suffering for months, hasn’t he?
I fully understand why he’s been so careful since we kissed. Barely a touch. Hardly a graze.
Any more than that, and it’s over for us. I don’t even think we’d need to wait for this place to have a bed back in it.
Invading my inappropriate thoughts, Kyran comes down the ladder and takes in his work. Tugging on the fabric, he makes sure the swing seems stable, then he slips his shoes off and climbs right inside.
I stare as the ice-blue material swallows him up in a cocoon.
Teardropped, he sways there, only his face poking out.
It spins, slowly, and he takes in his vacant bedroom, which has become wholly brighter since we started this project, and not just because I banished his black-out curtains so I could paint…
and conveniently ordered only pretty, lacy, icy blue ones to replace them.
This place is no longer a sad boy cave. The sun is his friend, and he will rise and fall with it.
Or, I hope so, anyway.
Because while this whole “punishment” has been therapeutic for me in ways I didn’t expect, I started it on a gamble to try and get him some better sleep.
Ever since he told me that he has legit insomnia, I’ve been researching methods to help.
I got a therapy lamp in his collection of new furniture.
I bought some sleep-aid sprays for his pillow.
I’m coating every inch of his space in new memories far from the things his parents saddled him with.
I’ve noticed that some days he’s been able to get better sleep lately.
I’ve also noticed that, usually, they’re the days I find him on my doorstep in the evening instead of at home streaming.
The conclusion I’ve come to is probably self-centered, but while he’s still stuck on this idea that he’s in love with me, I seem to bring him peace.
I’d like him to keep that peace for as long as possible and continue getting the rest his body needs.
When the swing twirls his face toward me again, his head has nodded forward.
Eyes closed, he sits there in a bundle, drifting off toward that rest, reminding me that last night he wasn’t on my doorstep with some new get to know each other better print out.
He was here in his gaming room. And I was watching his stream late into the evening.
Setting my paint things down, I inch across the white wood flooring to him.
Carefully, I stop the swing from spinning, take in his dark lashes as they kiss his cheeks.
His eyes open, partly, remaining low. They close again, and he snuggles. Voice deep, he says, “Love you.”
My heart skips a beat.
Breath moves him, and he murmurs, “Like you.”
Heat settles in my chest as my toes curl.
“Want you.”
Yeah. Ditto.
Sighing, I wrap him up in a hug, letting the tension out of my muscles. My cheek settles against the top of his head, and I smile into the scent of his shampoo. Masculine. Warm. Night.
“Want to climb in with me?” he murmurs.
I hum. “Nah, I do not yearn to return to my experience of being in the womb, but I will take my turn after you.”
“Once it smells like me. An excellent scheme, mistress. If only I’d thought of it first.”
I free a short laugh and let myself indulge in the scent of him until I find the strength to drag myself away and finish painting. He helps, then we clean up the painter’s tape and the plastic we put down to protect the floor.
After lunch and some other chores, the paint has dried enough for us to dare dragging the new furniture in, so we take the rest of the evening to get his space all situated.
Plush.
Soft.
Warm.
Cozy.
And, okay fine, cute.
So, so, so very cute.
It’s actually hilarious that this is the end result of a whole man’s room. It went from monochrome sharp to cotton candy shag rugs and giant pink faux fur saucer chairs and a wholly lavish California King princess bed, complete with a gaudy fairy light canopy.
Beside me, Kyran whistles.
I grin at him. “What do you think?”
“I have never felt more masculine.”
My eyes roll, and I snatch his hand before shutting the lights off and dragging him by the slim glow of the moon beyond the windows to his bed.
Pushing him inside the lace atop a soft down comforter, I turn the canopy on and let the little lights burst to life like fireflies before I fall into the cocoon beside him.
I beam.
I’d just love to see a nightmare manage to appear amid all this nonsense. Like, you’re telling me that you’re gonna show up and try to be scary in a princess bed surrounded by fluffy stuffed animals?
Pft.
Yeah, okay. Sure.
“Do you like it?” I blurt, turning to look at Kyran, expecting him to be taking in the beautiful view above us.
His eyes linger on me. “Yes,” he says, and a breath catches in my chest when his fingers meet mine again. They twine, linking our hands together. “I love it.”
His thumb swipes up my index finger as his eyes close, and I find myself stuck. Here. Late. With him.
Bad decisions around every corner.
Hiding in every plush shadow.
“Do you really like it?” I ask, tone odd even in my own ears.
“Yes,” he repeats. “It’s warm. Safe. And…every part makes me think of you.” Gentle, a smile touches his lips. “Even though it’s nothing like either of us, really, is it?”
My face heats. “I don’t know… The blues are your blues.”
“Mm, true. But you’re not very pink.”
“Not…usually.” I glance toward my pink dumpling bear.
The very one I lent him, hoping it might chase his nightmares away.
“Or maybe not…publicly. Pink is Mae’s favorite color, right?
And…well…it suits her, you know? Cute things.
Pretty things. They suit her. I’m…less cute and pretty.
It doesn’t match my character or the way I look.
I’ve played mannequin more times than I can count growing up, back when Mae and I shared a pretty identical body type, so I know I’m not comfortable in the things she wears, but I…
This stuff…” I chew my lip. “I don’t know.
I really like it, too, just absolutely not as clothes. ”
“Pretty, lacy, cutie Morana…” he murmurs.
I shudder.
His eyes open, icy blue and gleaming in the fairy lights. “Please, mistress?”
I flinch. “Please what exactly?”
“Would you bless a starving e-boy with the honor to behold such a thing?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Absolutely not.”
“But, mistress—”
“Don’t you but, mistress me.”
His brows dip, pathetically. “I hunger.”
I scoff and roll my eyes off him. “Then hunger, stupid. I’m not playing princess dress up for you.”
“What about leather dress up?”
“Ew, no.”
“Vinyl?”
I rock my glare back toward him.
His soft smile catches me off guard, and I forget my comeback before he says, “What about…one of my night shirts?”
I swallow.
He closes several inches between us, pulls my hand up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. “Could I convince you to slip into one of them for me…and then stay here, in this room that’s unexpectedly us…all night?”
My heart skips a beat.
His smile stretches as he kisses my fingers. “Probably not…huh?”
Probably shouldn’t, huh?
But…it’s so late. And my house is so…empty. And it’s so cold out there. And… “How?” I find myself saying.
His attention lifts, pinning my eyes. “How?”
“How…when you couldn’t even brush my hair on your bed…do you think we’re going to be able to share one?”
His smile fades as his eyes widen.
Heat grazes his cheeks, and I know I’m looking at a reflection of my own face.
“Morana…that’s…not a no.”
“I know.” My voice quakes. “I know it isn’t.
” Breath trembles into my lungs. “But if the last thing I want to do tonight is drive home in the cold and the dark and find myself fighting not to cry myself to sleep alone in a silent house all by myself…can I trust you won’t make me regret telling you that truth? ”
He swallows, looks at me, and squeezes my hand. “Can I trust you won’t kiss me?”
I glance at his lips, remember their taste, and pull myself together. “Yes.”
He lifts his free hand to my cheek and slips his fingers into my hair. Half tortured, he whispers a low, “All right.”
“All right?” I echo.
“I will do everything in my power to make sure you don’t regret trusting me.” Running his fingers out of my hair, he smiles. “Let’s get you ready for bed, beautiful, so that we may christen our new room with its first slumber…together.”
Together.
I guess I really haven’t outgrown any of the bad decisions that controlled me in high school, but maybe—just maybe—I can hope that my accomplices have.