Chapter 34 Chloe
chloe
The palm of my hand grazes over the back of Maverick’s head.
His buzzed hair usually feels like tiny little pin pricks against my skin, but this morning, they feel softer.
I suppress a giggle when I think about the fact that I grew up lusting over guys with so much hair it covered their eyes, and now here I am, borderline obsessed with a man who purposefully shaves his head.
I rest my hand against his chest, gently pressing my fingers into the hard plains of his pecs.
Waking up in his bed with him feels so natural.
Domestic, even. And that’s what worries me the most. This space in between where nothing has a name and I’m left to quietly wonder what we are—or what we’re not.
I’ve waited before. I’ve been the soft, agreeable girl who thought that would be enough.
I committed without requiring commitment in return, and I masked it all by calling it patience instead of fear.
Now, I’m in a place where it never feels like I need to bargain or bend, and I don’t know how to trust that.
We haven’t been performing for anyone in a while, if anything we’ve been hiding it. My mind latches on to that thought. Is this just another almost? Is he embarrassed of me? Is he getting something more out of this arrangement?
I draw in a slow breath, forcing my thoughts to settle.
His hand closes gently around my wrist, and his thumb brushes over my skin. His other hand cups the back of my hair, gently stroking the strands, and when my heart flips, I know.
I know I’ve let what I thought my heart wanted steer me wrong before, but I know that this is different. It doesn’t feel like waiting or guessing. It doesn’t feel like begging to be chosen, or begging to be seen.
With Maverick, it never feels like I have to give anything up. I feel whole, and not in a “he completes me” type of way, but in a “I don’t have to give up parts of myself” kind of way. He sees everything I am.
Some people might think less of him, but I’ve always seen him for who he is. And I know that there’s feelings there.
“Your hair is longer,” I say, nuzzling in closer to him.
He stretches his arms overhead before swiftly pulling me up to straddle him. “It’s been a busy few days. I haven’t had a chance to go get it cut.”
“What do you mean ‘go get it cut?’”
“The place I go to is over in Holly, and it’s only like fifteen minutes, but like I said—” He runs his large palms up the sides of my legs until his thumbs land on my hip bones.
“I’ve been busy.” He looks at where I’m sitting on his lap, positioning himself and rolling my hips over his growing erection.
“Mav!” I swat at his arm, climbing off of him and he sits up, following me. “You mean to tell me you go somewhere to get your hair cut?”
“Yes?” His brows pinch together in the middle.
“You shave your head!” I throw an arm out and he runs his hand over the top of his hair.
“Come on,” I say, reaching for him. “I’ll cut your hair.”
I barely get a grip on his arm before he tugs me back, and I fall on top of him again.
A laugh bursts from me as I try to push up but his lips are already on my skin.
He places a kiss along my jaw, down my neck, and on my collarbone.
His fingers slip into my hair, tugging gently at the nape of my neck, and the giggle dies in my throat.
Replaced by a shiver that racks my entire body.
He pauses just long enough to grin and take in my reaction, but I just swat at his chest with a playful roll of my eyes.
After hunting down clippers from Silas, I drag Maverick to his bathroom, which just like the rest of him and his room—is impeccable.
The counters and mirrors are spotless, his stand-up shower is wiped down, fresh towels hang from the metal hooks on the wall, and there’s even a dark green fluffy rug beside the vanity. The perfect place for him to kneel.
“Get on your knees,” I say.
“Yes, baby.”
Clippers in one hand, I reach for his shoulder with the other, but there’s no need to guide him. He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he lowers himself to the floor.
His thick fingers trail along the length of my calf, barley there, but it’s enough to make my nipples pebble.
The shirt he gave me last night hangs loose, brushing my mid thigh as his touch moves higher, slipping up beneath the hem, until he finds the round globes of my ass.
He groans softly, pressing his forehead to my stomach, all while never letting go of me.
I inhale, letting the weight of the clippers in my hand remind me what we’re doing here in the first place.
He stays where he is, hands still wrapped around my legs, and eyes trained on mine as I lift the clippers.
The razor hums to life and I guide it carefully over his head.
Hairs so small they’re almost invisible fall away, scattering on his bare shoulders and the tiled floor.
I go to lift the clippers for another pass but stop.
The way he’s looking at me is overwhelming.
It’s as if I can feel the trust in his gaze, the quiet adoration, like there's something solid between us.
If I thought waking up in bed with him felt domestic, this feels intimate in a way that makes my knees week.
This no longer feels like just a hair cut, but something else entirely, and whatever worries I woke up with feel like a distant memory.
When I’m done, he turns on the shower, checking the temperature before stepping in. I lean against the counter, watching him slide off what little clothes he was wearing and step in.
“You coming?” His mouth turns up into a cocky grin, and I squeeze my legs together at the double entendre.
“Not yet,” I say, stepping closer. “But I hope to be soon.”
I don’t even have time to lift my shirt over my head before his hand reaches out, tugging me into the shower with him. Warm water sprays over us as his mouth roams my body, and he doesn’t stop until we’re both panting against the wall, needing to rinse off again.
He grabs a towel and wraps it around me before guiding us back to his bedroom. I follow him barefoot to his dresser when he opens the drawer and pulls out a T-shirt, but I don’t take it.
Instead, my breath stutters as my mouth falls open, and I lean forward, fingers reaching for the small slip of paper on the dresser.
Everything on the dresser is just as meticulous as his room. His single bottle of cologne, his fancy black watch laid perfectly straight, the polaroid photo Savannah took of the two of us while camping, and laid perfectly flat, as if it had been pressed in a book…a fortune cookie slip.
My finger trails it, and when I look up, Maverick scratches his fingers along the back of his neck.
“I thought you didn’t believe in fortune cookies?” I ask, picking the paper up.
He leans his back against the dresser, eyes never leaving mine. “I didn’t believe in a lot of things before you.”
I let out a quiet breath. “You said the day you were jealous of Nathan would be the day you believed in them.”
“I am.”
My hand stills. “What?”
“I’m jealous of him.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but he reaches for my hand that’s still holding the slip. “Because he was on the receiving end of your love for so long. Because he got to hear all the things that you’re passionate about, all the things you believe in, your achievements, and your worries.”
My heart both blooms and sinks that he feels that way. That he thinks my relationship with Nathan was any of those things. Because as much as I thought I could love Nathan, he was never on the receiving end of any of that.
“So, yeah. I’m jealous, Chlo. I’m so fucking jealous.”
I set the tiny strip of paper back down on the dresser, wrap my arms around him, and place my head over his chest. His heart pounds loudly abasing my ear. I close my eyes, squeezing him a little tighter, and whisper, “He’s not on the receiving end anymore."
When Maverick said he had a surprise for me, I assumed he meant dinner or something casual. Access to the astronomy tower is anything but casual.
The air is colder up here, so I tighten the fabric of the blanket he thought to bring around me, settling back into him. His chest rises and falls steadily against my spine, and his arms hold me tight across my middle.
“So, you believe in astrology. You believe in fairy tales. You believe—”
“Who says I believe in fairy tales?” I cover my smile with the blanket and his laugh reverberates through my back.
“Your entire existence, says.”
I laugh, dropping my head to his shoulder so I can look up at him. Like always, he’s already looking at me. His blue eyes twinkle with the reflection of the million stars in the sky tonight, holding me in place the same way his arms do. Intentionally.
His finger twitches under the blanket, but just the smallest movement causes me to go still. I can almost see my breath when my lips part as my breathing picks up. Maverick leans in, his eyelashes lower, and his lips press firmly to my forehead.
I feel it rather than think it. It’s something that’s taken up residence behind my rib cage, and I feel every beat. Every flap of wing.
Butterfly.
Butterfly.
Butterfly.
It’s on the tip of my tongue. One breath.
One word to either ruin or admit everything.
“Do you believe there are other universes?” he asks, looking back up at the sky.
I follow his line of sight, but then like a magnetic pull, I’m right back to looking at his face. This close and without his focus on me, I can take in every unfairly perfect line of his face.
His clean cut jaw that looks like it was carved with precise intention.
The curves of his lips are soft but always lifted into a confident smirk.
The straight plain of his nose, which by all means should be bent or at least a little crooked.
And then his lashes that were wasted on a man, frame those clear blue eyes.
When I look at him, for a split second, it feels like the entire universe narrows down to just this moment.
This rooftop with his arms wrapped around me.
It feels like nothing could have aligned better.
Somehow, out of all that space, timelines and uncertainty, I ended up here.
Held in his arms like I’m something he sees the world in.
“I think some moments are harder to imagine than others…” I admit. I nuzzle closer into him and focus on his steady heartbeat at my back. “But yeah. I believe there are other universes out there.”