Page 35 of The Sharpest Edges

Dean feels like he slept for twenty-four hours straight.

Soft sheets and blissful silence were all it took to pass out straight through the night, past morning, and into the afternoon. The last thing he remembers is texting Ava before flopping face-first into his pillow which he’ll never take for granted again. Now, he’s wide awake and sleep-drunk, having gotten too much of a good thing. His head throbs and he needs coffee as badly as he needs his next breath. Lots and lots of coffee.

The residual exhaustion fogging him up makes it easy to pretend the past couple of months in prison were only a bad dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Ava had a starring role in what his mind conjured up behind closed lids, but he wasn’t lucky enough to see anything sexy. No, she was thrust into a nightmare instead, enduring what might have happened if he never reached the infirmary in time. His legs dragged, forcing him to limp down the hall until he saw Jaxson rush in with her and slam the door shut behind him.

He woke screaming her name, ready to beat the table lampa foot away into pieces for touching her.

Dean runs a hand over his face, leaning on the kitchen counter, chin in his palm while coffee drips into the pot at a snail’s pace. He wants to text her. Call her. See her. Touch her. Especially that last one. The remnants of his nightmare have him needy and tactile and he’d love nothing more than to have her in his arms to reassure himself that she is safe and in one piece, and that his mind was only playing tricks on him.

It should be simple enough to initiate contact. Tradition suggests that it’s the guy’s job to keep showing interest, but he doesn’t know what the hell to say, or when to say it. Will he chase her away if he bothers her too much? It’s not even been one full day yet.

His lack of experience with relationships is often something he couldn’t give two shits about. Boone loves to give him hell, saying all he needs is to get his dick wet and everything else will fall into place, but far as Dean’s concerned he’s been fine alone and fucking women only to forget them the next day was always his brother’s game, not his.

This is the one time he sort of wishes he could ask his brother what to do, though. One thing Boone has is plenty of skill in knowing exactly how to behave around the fairer sex. When to call, where to go out, what to say, how to move. Meanwhile, Dean has been staring at his phone for the last five minutes, trying to work up the courage to send a simple line. Should he ask her out again today? To where? Text her something unrelated first? Give it another day so he’s not blowing up her phone like a weirdo or run face-first into the abyss and accept that he sucks at this and she’s already well aware of that?

People do this shit every day. It’s not as big a deal as he’s making it out to be in his head. That’s what he repeats tohimself more than once while stirring milk into his coffee cup. He scrolls through the emojis on his phone looking for anything that says“Hey, I miss you already and it’s hardly been twenty four hours, wanna do something?”

Unsurprisingly, there isn’t.

There is, however, a vast array of emojis to choose from. So many that he’s bombarded by choices, like a kid in a candy store. He never had much reason to text anyone except Boone and now here he is with someone he can send tiny little pictures to. He ends up in the flower section again after a few thumb flicks. Instinct says to send her a rose, but that seems cliche so he scrolls further to that pale lavender flower he sent the night before, the one that looks a lot like the plants growing up the prison gate.

‘Good morning. How’s things?’He sends that line along with a flower, scolding himself a moment later. “Shit. Stupid. How’s things? That’s smooth as fuck.”

Her typing bubble pops up, and he’s never watched something so closely in all his life. His nerves tingle, one hand hovering over the coffee, stuck mid-reach.

‘I think you mean good afternoon. Things are good, watching that show. The kid is alive! Barb is dead :( how’s things over there?’

He snorts at the TV spoilers she offered, as if he had any clue what was going on in that show she’s so addicted to.‘Slept forever. Just woke up. Finally, someone saved that kid.’

‘Thought you might have passed out. Good. You probably needed the rest.’

He stares at the phone for a moment, unsure how to get past the small talk and to the actual point of suggesting they make plans. He intended to ask her out again last night, but he was overwhelmed by the time they got to his house and oncehe kissed her his brain stopped functioning and any hope of suggesting another date was a lost cause.

Ava’s typing bubble appears again, and he freezes, watching to see what she might say, but then it’s gone again.

Then it’s back.

Then it’s gone.

He takes a deep breath and dives off a cliff, holding the air in his lungs until the message is sent and out of his control.

‘Would like to see you again. You got plans tomorrow?’

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Tomorrow is too soon. He’s doing that needy thing again. She just saw him yesterday. For the first time in forever, he doesn’t expect rejection, but it’s hard not to second guess himself and wonder what wrong move might finally turn her off. Waiting for the other shoe to drop is an ingrained habit that he can’t shuck just yet.

She is merciful as always and doesn’t make him wait long.‘No plans. I’m free after work. :) Coffee? There’s a shop downtown that has really good mochas.’

He grins at his phone, relieved that she suggested a place and thing to do because he was searching his brain for something appropriate and coming up blank. He rarely did much at all before getting locked up. He went to work, to the store, and back home to do it all over again the next day. That was his schedule, so when it comes to knowing appropriate date locations, he is sorely lacking.

‘Coffee sounds good, 7?’

‘Perfect.’She caps off her text with a coffee cup emoji that makes him smile at the phone like he’s nineteen again.

He has a date with Ava tomorrow and he can’t fucking wait.

* **

Dean’s never spent much time downtown. He’s driven through it and gotten stuck in traffic, but that’s about it. Too much noise, too many people, too overwhelming,. Wandering around alone was never very appealing. Only now he’s sitting at an outside table on a warm night with Ava, his hands curled around the frozen mocha in front of him that tastes like chocolate heaven.

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