- twenty seven - alex
Check out the chapter before this one cause for some reasons, Wattpad didn't notify.
. . .
She's snoring into my chest like a damn truck.
Loud. Dramatic. Probably on purpose. Scratch that-definitely on purpose.
And I'm just... lying here. Letting her.
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. But I'm also fighting this stupid-ass smile, because Dana Archer-storm in human form, chaos wrapped in legs and stubbornness-is curled against me like she belongs here.
Which is stupid.
Because she doesn't.
Because I don't do this.
Not the soft touches. Not the holding. Not the forehead kisses. And definitely not the letting-a-girl-use-my-pec-as-a-pillow level of domesticity.
But here I am. Barely breathing. Scared I'll wake her up.
Her hand's still on my chest. Her thigh's hooked over mine. She's wrapped around me like she's never letting go, and God help me-I don't want her to.
Which is dangerous.
Because I ruin everything I touch.
People think I don't care. That I'm cold. Distant. Some rich kid with tattoos and a bad attitude who never gives a shit. They're right. I've made sure they're right.
But Dana?
She looked at me like I was more than that.
In that damn VIP room, with my shirt half off and her lipstick all over my face, she looked at me like I mattered.
Like I could be something good.
And for a second, I believed it.
But belief is a luxury I don't get to have. Not in the world I've built for myself.
I stare up at the ceiling, heart still thudding like it's trying to break out of my ribcage. Her breath is warm on my neck. Soft. Safe.
Too goddamn perfect.
My fingers move before I can stop them, tracing idle shapes on her back. She shifts slightly, sighing, like she knows it's me.
And that kills me.
That she trusts me like this. That she wants me like this.
Because if she knew who I really was-what I really do-she'd run.
I'm not stupid. I know this won't last. Girls like her don't stay. Not when they realize the mess behind the facade.
She's sunshine. I'm static.
She sketches flowers in her notebook. I sell poison in back alleys.
And yet. . . she's here. Wrapped around me like I'm worth loving.
And I'm holding on like I don't already know how this ends.
With me? Alone.
Like always.
. . .
I stand outside the damn flower shop for a full five minutes before I grow a pair and walk in.
The bell over the door jingles like it's mocking me.
Flowers. Everywhere.
I want to be anywhere but here.
There are colors I didn't even know existed. Smells I can't place. And an old lady behind the counter who's already eyeing me like I'm about to steal something or make her cry.
I shove my hands in my pockets and pretend I'm not about to do the most cringe thing I've ever done in my life.
This is stupid.
Just to make things clear, I am not doing this because I want to get her flowers.
It's simply because if I don't, Dana's gonna go all oh he's emotionally unavailable and allergic to affection on me again and start thinking I don't actually like her.
Which is also the reason why I didn't complain when she starfished in my bed like a menace.
So yeah. This isn't because I'm soft.
It's strategy.
I'm not a pussy. This is pure survival.
"You look lost, sweetheart," the flower shop lady says, her voice saccharine and smug.
I clear my throat. "Yeah. I mean-no. I mean-I'm just looking."
She smiles like I'm the cutest idiot she's seen all week. "Is it for a girl?"
My jaw ticks. ". . . no."
She raises an eyebrow.
"It's for my roommate."
Her other eyebrow joins the first. "Your roommate."
"Yeah."
She's not buying it. "Must be a very special roommate."
"She's not special," I say quickly. Too quickly. "I mean-she's fine. Not like special special. She's just-"
She's the most special thing ever.
God.
Abort.
"I just need flowers," I mutter.
"For a not special girl. Got it."
I'm never showing my face here again.
She starts pulling out options. Roses. Tulips. Daisies. Something purple with a name I can't even pronounce.
"What does she like?" the lady asks.
"Uh. . ." I think about Dana's sketchbook, the way she colors her world in shades of soft greens and browns. Her headband. The little pressed flowers tucked between her books. "Something. . . earthy, I think?"
The flower witch lights up. "Say no more."
Ten minutes later, she's assembled some wild-looking bouquet that smells like the forest and looks like Dana might've picked it herself.
It's perfect.
This is annoying.
I hand over way too much money, avoid eye contact the whole time, and leave like I just robbed the place.
Halfway down the street, I glance down at the bouquet.
She's gonna smile when she sees it.
Not just a regular smile. That smile. The one she does when she thinks no one's watching. Like the world just gave her a gift she didn't expect.
God help me, I think I want to see it again.
I mutter to myself, "Still not romantic."
The flowers don't respond.
Betrayal.
. . .
I shouldn't be doing this.
I saw her this morning. She tripped over my charger, called me an insufferable beanpole, and then stole the last slice of toast like she pays rent with attitude alone.
That should be enough.
And yet, here I am, walking to her damn café like a stalker with flowers in my hand and shame in my soul.
Why?
Because I want to see her.
For once, I decide I'm not going to overthink it.
If I wanna see her, I'm gonna see her. Screw pride. Screw logic. Screw whatever voice in my head is trying to call me a simp.
God, I'm turning into a fucking simp.
The bell chimes when I push open the door, and the familiar scent of burnt espresso and vanilla hits me.
And then I see her.
And everything goes still.
She's behind the counter, laughing at something one of the other baristas said, her ponytail swinging behind her, a few strands loose and curling around her face.
She's in that stupid beige uniform-blouse tucked into a skirt that should be illegal, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, collar just slightly undone, like she doesn't even realize how goddamn lethal she looks.
Her lips are the soft pink she always wears. Her freckles are visible in the daylight streaming through the window. And when she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, her bracelet shifts-wooden beads, earthy tones.
She looks like something out of a dream I didn't know I had.
My throat dries.
Fuck. She's beautiful. Ethereal.
She sees me.
And for a second-just a blink-her eyes go wide. Her smile falters. There's this flicker of something soft, almost shy, before she masks it with that classic Dana bravado.
But then she sees the bouquet.
And her face lights up like a Christmas tree.
Her mouth drops open, and she practically squeals, "Alex! Are those for me?"
I lift the bouquet halfway, awkward and still kind of pissed at myself. "No. I robbed a forest and these were just lying there."
She snorts. SNORTS. And then runs around the counter and literally jumps to take them from me.
"Alex," she says, clutching them like they're made of gold. "These are-oh my God-these are so me. Look at this little fern! Did you ask for earthy? You totally asked for earthy, didn't you?"
"I didn't ask for anything," I lie.
"You so did."
"Okay maybe."
She buries her face in the bouquet, practically giggling. I shift on my feet, one hand shoved in my jacket pocket, the other running through my hair like I didn't spend twenty minutes making sure it looked perfectly messy before I left.
"Stop smiling like that," I mutter.
"Like what?" she asks sweetly. Kill me now.
"Like I just gave you a damn puppy."
She beams. "You basically did."
I roll my eyes, but my lips betray me with the tiniest smirk. "You're insufferable."
"You're romantic."
I grit my teeth. "Don't start."
"Oh, I'm starting. I'm so starting. You-tattooed, black-tee-wearing, emotionally constipated sweet sweet man, you-just brought me flowers to my workplace. This is rom-com behavior, Lancaster. This is main character energy. This is-"
"Alright, I'm leaving. I have some important shit to do," I cut in, turning before she can say anything else that'll make me dig a hole and die in it.
"Uh-huh," she calls after me. "Go on, big scary bad boy with a soft side. Go do your Important Bad Boy Things."
I shoot her a glare over my shoulder and walk out. She grins at me and waves.
But my hand lingers on the door for a second longer than it should. Because I hear her laugh. That real one. The one that sounds like sunshine and trouble.
And for a second, I swear I feel lighter.
. . .