Candy Gram ✓

chapter eleven

David and I end up staying up in the loft for a surprisingly long (as well as satisfying) time. We're sat on the arm chair next to each other, him slightly on my lap, our limbs a tangled mess. I not only brought a whole tub of ice cream (which we completely devoured between laughs and quick, unbelievably-sweet kisses), but also a tub of grapes. We're taking turns trying to land them in each other's mouths, which might not seem too romantic, but, heck, I'm loving it.

My left arm - the side of my body that he's kind-of-almost sitting on - is wrapped around his waist, resting slightly on his stomach. I can feel his ribs expand slowly every time he breathes, and, at first, he seemed to be as frightened of this as I was, but he's definitely calming down now.

He doesn't smell like chlorine at the moment - instead, he smells like vanilla and spices, and I love it. Though giving into my urges and pressing my face between his neck and shoulder and giving a long sniff probably isn't the way to continue to woo a guy.

The candles smell great - I have no idea what they are, but them combined with the mint chocolate chip ice cream I brought (David had mentioned it was his favourite over the phone last night) is making the air smell freaking fantastic.

David's lips find mine again, and I pull him more onto my lap. He turns around to better face me and places his hands on the side of my face. My arm that's around his torso stays there, strong; my other winds up to his shoulder blades, feeling the strong, tight muscles of his back.

It's getting late enough that my eyes are struggling to open, but I can still picture him on my lap: his deep brown eyes shut lightly; his nose wrinkled in the cutest way, like a rabbit's, almost; the half-smile I know is traced over his lips as he scooches even closer to me.

I'm kissing freaking David Marquez, and I never want it to end.

I can kind of tell that the party is winding down downstairs; even though it's physically hard for me, I break the kiss and look at him, expression serious. "Do you want a ride home?" I ask.

David grins wide. "I would love that." I boop his nose (finally), and he bite his lip. I'm too busy focusing on him to even think about anything else.

The loft is left dark and empty (and clean, because we're not heathens) as we make our way towards my car. David jokes that he should carry me so that my sneakers don't get wet. I just laugh and sling an arm over his shoulders.

"You're so sweet," I tell him sincerely.

He stands on tiptoe and kisses me quickly right on my jawline (which feels way too amazing to be legal). "I know," he whispers conspiratorially. There's this warmth that spreads through me, just from being next to him. "I'm amazing."

"Indeed you are," I tell him, leaning so I can return a similar peck on his forehead. "And you put the 'hot' in hot air balloon."

He just chuckles. "I still can't believe I said that."

"I'm glad you did. It was adorkable."

"'Adorkable'." His face practically splits, he's grinning so hard. "I am, aren't I?"

"I don't lie," I promise.

Unfortunately for the both of us, I have to let him go so that he can climb into the passenger's seat, which is hard, but when I climb in and toss my comforter into the back seat, he leans over the gearshift and kisses me.

"To the home!" he mutters, pulling away but an inch.

I laugh and pull back out onto the highway as the fairy lights of the barn slowly twinkle off in the receding distance.

David is tired, I can tell. I think whatever ice cream-induced sugar high I put him on is wearing off - his head is literally lolling towards the window; his eyes are barely open.

"Nick," he says quietly, lolling back over to face me.

"David," I say, trying to not sound too giddy. David-freaking-Marquez. Holy crap. Quite honestly, I still am having trouble processing it.

"Nick," he says again, grinning to himself like there's some kind of favourably amusing thing about my name.

"David." (Because I don't know what else to do.)

"You're amazing," he says. "I really like you. A lot."

"I like you, too," I tell him. And I mean it.

"I like you, like, the most-est." He's giggling now, near drunkenly. "'Most-est'. That's not even a word. Is that a word?" He emits a short "hmm". "I like you more than words, apparently."

I feel like my smile is of the insatiable type. "Same here," I say, because I'm a fantastic lyricist. A total Shakespeare.

"I mean it," he says, quietly, more serious now.

"Same here," I say again.

When we pull up into David's driveway - thank God he woke up more after I got him a cup of coffee from the gas station - he tiredly unbuckles the seat belt and looks over at me.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I interrupt him. "I'm walking you to the door," I say. "Because, I'm a gentleman."

"Alright, then." He grins sheepishly and shakes his head slightly. In the light of the car as I open the door, I can see his slight flush.

I wait for him at the hood of the car, standing in the low beams, as he makes his way towards me, his hands shoved in his coat pockets to protect against the cold.

My arm goes around his shoulders, and we're both silent.

"I wish you could come inside," he says quietly, his breath puffing out in minty clouds before him.

"I do, too" I say, rubbing his shoulder as we walk. "Maybe next time."

"Yeah. Maybe next time." He sounds elated. Tired, but elated.

We stop on his stoop, and for a moment, his hand rests on the doorknob. "So, I guess this is the part where you kiss me goodnight," he says, looking up to me. I don't think I've ever seen him look more vulnerable before - and I've known him for most of my life. (Small town perks.)

Still, I think I might look even more scared (yet also hopeful) than David does as I place my hand gently on the side of his face and kiss him once - gently; for what feels like an eternity; and softly on the cheek.

"I'll text you when I get home," I promise him.

"Don't text me," he says, his hand finding my own. "Call me."

I take his other hand, lacing our fingers together. "Maybe I'll send a carrier pigeon."

Eyes bright, he says, "Or a candy gram."

With a smile, I hug him tightly, and when I hop back into Subaru, I have to idle for a moment to make sure my heart isn't going to literally pound out of my chest. David Marquez and me. Jesus.

I feel stupid all that time for not realizing it, but it kind of makes sense now. (In a very weird way.)

After all, I always knew David had taste.

---> epilogue.