𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦?! | 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝟐𝟗. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

The drive back to his apartment was quiet. Exits and speed limits flashed by. You two had been taking too long in the café, so he had invited you to his place. Despite the drama of today, you weren't sure where you stood with him; you cared about him–you'd said so–and it seemed he cared about you, too. The only question was how much, for how long, and–

"[Name], what's your plan?"

The full extent of your plan had been to get coffee and talk. But now–the situation had changed. Moving away from home and sustaining yourself on royalties from the novel and tutoring jobs, things were honestly fine for you. But that also meant... you could live wherever you wanted.

You could get a green card in America for work–you could write anywhere, and having written a novel would make it more likely for them to approve your application. In five years, you could have citizenship; your pulse picked up–highway signs and neighboring cars flew by. Clay's car devouring the distance, you could see all the possibilities spinning out in front of you.

"America, maybe."

He grinned. "Guest room's open."

"Just like the old days."

Though different, in an important way.

You perked up. "This time, I'll split rent!"

"You don't have to."

"I insist."

He glared. "I insist."

"Eyes on the road. I insist harder."

He turned back. "I insist hardest."

"I insist that you're an idiot."

There was a silence. "You got me there."

You blinked. A concession? Humility? This was new for him.

"Hey, [Name]?"

"Clay?"

"I'm really sorry. About that last night."

You waited for him to continue.

"I said... some things I shouldn't have. I really thought you meant what I had overheard–I don't know why. Maybe because you're so smart and driven, and you could succeed at any college or goal you set your mind to. Or because some part of me just felt safer believing it than believing you. It was totally stupid and illogical."

"Clay, it was... two years. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Why didn't you?"

You stared hard at him. "I asked first. You go."

He let out a breath. "I got busy."

"It's not an excuse. I know. I messaged you saying sorry, you said it was okay, but I didn't know how to talk to you after all that so I missed a few days. Then you missed a few days, and I didn't think you wanted to keep things going, and I didn't want to be the creep pushing you for some deep relationship from an ocean away."

He shook his head.

"You still responded to my messages and it didn't seem like you hated me, so I forced myself to let that be good enough. Especially after I pushed you away like that. So then I threw myself into YouTube, into music, and other people, but it wasn't the same."

You nodded. What must it have taken him to be so painfully candid? You let a smile curl over your face–these two years had changed you, and it seemed they had changed him as well. You felt a lot better about... whatever this was, knowing that you could finally be honest to each other, about each other.

"Your turn," he said.

You took a breath. "Same here. I thought I'd tried everything, and you still didn't believe me, so nothing I tried would've worked. It hadn't occurred to me to just try again."

"It was my fault. I should've believed you."

You were struck with the sensation of your heart melting, trickling down your ribcage and pooling somewhere soft and warm. He was different, and yet, the same. You could do this. It could work.

"So do you want to... enter a romantic relationship?" You cringed. What else would you do, make him sign a written contract? It sounded so clinical when you said it that way. And clingy. "Sorry, was that too soon? I mean–Clay, do you want to fall in love?"

There it was. If you were doing the communication thing now, it may as well go all the way.

He pulled into the apartment parking lot, setting down the brake. Then, he turned and smiled at you, so softly your heart melted. "[Name], I do. I already have."

You followed him up the stairs, and you were reminded of that first September when you were alone with a suitcase and no idea that you were in the wrong state, let alone of the wonderful consequences. He let you in before him, and you weren't sure what was going to happen–only that you weren't afraid.

    He shut the door.

"[Name]?"

You turned to him.

"A couple years ago, you gave me something I didn't return."

You blinked. "Did I?" You'd packed pretty thoroughly, and upon getting home, you didn't recall missing anything.

"A kiss, [Name]."

You cringed. Consent was key. "Yeah. I'm really sorry about that. I was impulsive and desperate and–"

"I think I should give it back."

Your pulse skyrocketed. Blood rushed to your cheeks, and you felt them burn. Was this really happening right now? Your heart was in your throat, your every nerve sang electric. Clay, after all these years, wanted to–"Yes! I mean–sure. You can if you want."

And before you could embarrass yourself any further, his hands were cradling your face, he was pressing his mouth to yours, and you pressed back, hands on chest, tilting your head for a better angle.

And this was so much better, because now he understood, and he wanted you too, and his lips were so warm and soft and insistent. And you tasted frustration and resolution alike, every kiss addictively short-lived and leaving you wanting more. Need erupted in your gut. You couldn't be closer, but it wasn't enough. Your knees buckled, but he didn't let you fall. And without losing contact, he led you to his room.

You fell back onto his mattress, hair fanned out like a halo, heart still pounding.

"Finally," he breathed. He loomed over you, filling your space.

"I didn't even have to steal your phone this time," you joked, but it had no bite to it.

He laughed, staring softly down at you. "I can't believe it," he murmured. "I'm so lucky."

And so were you. You took a moment to admire the face you'd so missed: the curve of his jaw, and his eyes, intent on only you right now, verdant, greener than green; you drank in the sprinkle of freckles running over his nose, his lips, pillowy and shaped perfectly for kissing, and his cheeks, adorably flushed. He held you in his gaze, just as you did him. And his expression–fondness, rapture, and hunger, all in one–made your body go molten, go liquid.

"Tell me to stop whenever, okay?"

"I don't want you to." You pulled him down, his lips to yours, your hands tugging helplessly at his hair.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead. He threaded his fingers through your fingers, and he took his time with you, lips honeyed and soft on your neck, your collarbone, your jaw, leaving a kiss for every day missed and every word left unsaid. Your blood burned in your veins, turned to sunlight. And you didn't know how long you spent like that, bliss and longing rising in every stolen plea, until Clay was lifting himself off of you, and you felt as if you were waking up from the most delicious dream.

"[Name]." His voice was raw and hoarse. "What do you want?"

You wanted to stop wanting; to come undone; to consume and be consumed by him.

"I want everything. I want you."

And whatever you wanted, he gave.

(1289)