Page 139 of After All This Time

"Because you're leaving."

"Not necessarily." The denial feels weak, even to my own ears.

"Mills," he says with a small, knowing smile, "you're leaving. I've seen you dance and watched your audition piece—you're going to blow them away, and we both know that."

"And what if I don't?" My voice cracks slightly, and his hand immediately finds mine, our fingers lacing together.

"Then we'll have this conversation again." He lifts our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss so gently against my skin thatI almost break. "But I already know you're leaving, and as much as I'm trying not to think about it, I know it leaves us in a weird place."

The reality of six months apart settles heavily in my stomach. "What happens while I'm gone?"

"Work." He attempts a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll probably drive Tessa and Zane crazytoo."

His laugh sounds hollow, and suddenly, too many questions crowd my throat.

Will he wait? Will he still look at me the same way when I come back?

But I swallow them all down, settling instead for "She loves you, you know. Anyone can see that, and Zane must like you too, deep down," I add, "especially after you tried to steal his girl."

"That is not how it went down." He laughs, shaking his head, and I raise an eyebrow at him, leaning back against the couch cushions.

"Just think how different everything would be if you and Tessa had actually gotten together," I say, ignoring the way my heart twists at the thought.

His hand comes up to my face, fingers ghosting along my cheek before tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.

"Everything happened exactly the way it was meant to."

"You think?" I ask, unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips.

"I think that sometimes the universe fights like hell to bring two people together, even when they're too blind to see what's right in front of them." He gently brushes his thumb over my cheekbone. "We were always meant to be more to each other, Firefly."

Chapter 52

Tobias

Icheck my phone again.Still nothing.

Amelia's audition was sometime this morning,and I'm stuck here, trying to pretend I'm not counting every minute that passes without a word from her.

The tattoo gun buzzes against my palm, but my mind is somewhere in a dance studio across the city, watching her move like she was born to own that stage. Two o'clock crawls closer, and I'm trying to lose myself inmywork.The raven beneath my needle takes shape, feathers dark and sharp against the faded pages of an open book.

Every time my phone lights up, my heart tries to climb out of my chest, only to sink when it's not her name I see.

God, I want her to succeed. I want her to walk into that audition and own every inch of that studio floor like I've watched her do a thousand times before. When she moves, it's like watching poetry write itself in real time—like someone took grace and gave it skin and bones and her smile. I want them tosee it. I want them to call her name and give her everything she's ever dreamed of.

But I'm a selfish bastard because I also want her to stay.

I want her in my bed every night, her body arching beneath mine. I want to bury myself so deep inside her that my scent becomes part of her. I want those quiet three a.m. moments when she's half-asleep against my chest, her hair tickling my nose, smelling like her coconut shampoo. I want to wake up to her stealing my blankets, her ice-cold feet tucked between my calves for warmth.

I want to trace her collarbone with my tongue, to mark the sensitive spot below her ear that makes her whisper my name. I want to find her hair ties scattered across my bedroom floor—the black ones she prefers for dance class and the purple one she had around her wrist last night when she rode me until we both saw stars. I want to keep finding them weeks later, tucked under the bed or behind the nightstand—little reminders that she was here and that she's mine.

These wants twist inside me like living things. They're selfish, greedy wants that have no place when stacked against her dreams. But they're there, burning under my skin.

The raven stares back at me from my client's arm, every feather a testament to the three hours I've spent trying not to lose my damn mind.

"Thank you. I love it." Her voice breaks through my thoughts, and I watch her twist her arm, admiring the way the light catches the fresh ink.

"When it’s healed, we’ll add those quotes,” I remind her, peeling off my gloves and tossing them into the trash. I help her out of the chair, glancing at the faint redness around the design. “Three quotes, right?"

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