“You’re a smart dude.”
“At times,” he replies and then shifts his eyes to the TV.
“Nah, man. You’re like super smart. Always reading and shit. I see you. We would have kicked ass at trivia if you’d have come.”
He doesn’t reply, just sits there and rubs those fingers over the chair's fabric.
“Don’t feel like you need to watch this. You can watch whatever you want.” I gesture toward the remote, and he shakes his head.
“This is fine.”
“Is it, though?” I ask, getting the impression he’s uncomfortable for some reason.
Probably because I’m needy, and he can tell I want him to come over here so I can snuggle.
I’ve never snuggled in my entire life until this dude.
For reals.
I’m slightly addicted to it.
“It’s fine.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, I think and then say, louder than I mean to, “Get over here, Whit.”
He glances over at me, and I push myself into a seated position.
“Come on. Don’t make me beg.”
He taps his fingers on the chair and inhales and exhales slowly. Like he’s debating if this is a good idea or not. It’s insulting, but I get it. Kind of. Mostly.
He pushes off the chair on his second deep breath and moves toward me. He lowers himself down next to me, and then I’m on him, moving on top of him. I don’t even hesitate. Probably should make myself seem less desperate. But I’ve always been an open book. What you see is what you get.
“No need to get weird about this,” I mutter as I tuck my forehead into the side of his neck and fling a leg across his thighs. “We’ll just get it out of our systems today and then go back to normal tomorrow.”
Whit sighs beneath me and begins fiddling with my hair.
“What is normal?” he asks, ever the philosopher.
“Don’t ask me. My entire life has been weirder than a Dr. Who episode.”
He chuckles at that and then shifts slightly so that our hips are now connected.
I rest my hand on his chest and move my eyes to the TV, not really watching what’s happening, and instead listen to his heart thump against my ear.
It’s calm and steady, and it slowly lulls me to sleep.
CHAPTERTHREE
Isaid I’d get it out of my system, but I don’t. Not really. We don’t cuddle the rest of the week. In fact, I barely see him. It’s like he’s avoiding me.
Don’t blame him. He’s probably had enough. My desperation was off-putting, apparently.
I can tell because he’s been on a cleaning spree. The apartment shines. I’m scared to even brew a cup of coffee for fear he’ll lose his mind if I make a mess. And don’t even get me started on my bed. He’s made it for me the past four days. Don’t know what’s up with that, but it’s an issue.
I make sure to rumple it just to irritate him.
If he starts ironing my socks, I might lose my shit entirely.