Page 73 of Pining for Pierce

I toyed with putting on clean clothes, but when Pierce came back, he convinced me I could change when we got back here, and then he thanked me, and spent about ten minutes kissing me, which felt lovely, even if his thanks were unnecessary.

There’s a laundry hamper in the corner of Pierce’s bedroom and I hesitate just for a second before putting my jeans in and leaving the room. Pierce is in the kitchen and he looks up, smiling at me.

“I’m just fixing some sandwiches. Is that okay?”

“It’s perfect. I’m starving.”

“I can’t think why,” he murmurs, grinning at me, and I wander over, leaning against him. He glances down, kissingthe top of my head, before he returns his attention to the sandwiches.

He’s using the salami we brought from my place, and adding mozzarella and tomatoes.

“That looks amazing,” I say as he cuts them up, putting them onto plates.

“I’ve already poured us some soda.” He nods toward the coffee table, where there are two glasses, waiting for us, and he carries the plates, letting me follow. “You changed your clothes,” he says, once we’ve both taken a seat.

“Just my jeans. Everything else is as it was before.”

“So you’re still wearing my t-shirt under my hoodie?”

“I think you’ll find it’s my hoodie now,” I say, which makes him smile. “And yeah, I’m still wearing your t-shirt.”

“Good,” he says. “I like you wearing my clothes.”

“So do I.”

He nods his head. “Did you put on any underwear?”

“No. Why? Did you want me to?”

“Hell, no.” I chuckle and he takes a bite of his sandwich. I copy him, watching as he smiles. “Hmm… that’s actually really good,” he says, sounding surprised.

“It is.” I take a sip of soda. “Although before we get off the topic of underwear, I should probably tell you, I couldn’t find anywhere to put mine in your bedroom, so I’ve left it in my bag.”

“Well… it doesn’t matter,” he says, and it doesn’t, I suppose. I can easily store my things in my bag… except that feels so temporary, and I thought he wanted me to stay. ‘For as long as you like’. That was what he said. In my mind, that meant a long, long time. Maybe even permanently. I thought he felt the same.

But maybe not.

“Are you okay?” I ask, fear getting the better of me, now I’ve sown that seed of doubt in my own mind.

“Of course,” he says, turning to me with a smile, which I can’t return.

“No… I mean, are you okay with this? I’m not crowding you, am I? I’m not being too clingy?”

I recall his criticisms of previous girlfriends, hoping that’s a good way to ask… to find out if this is what I want it to be, or if I’m expecting too much of him.

He takes my plate, putting it on the table alongside his own, then stares down at me, frowning.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I want to know.”

“I get that, but why?”

“Because I remember what you used to say…”

“Yeah… about the women who weren’t right for me.”

“I know, but…”

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