Page 4 of I Knead You Tonight

“Yes! Because you are one! You’re—”

“At least you didn’t call me a penis wrinkle like Wren’s taken to doing. That one is just…” He shakes his head like none of this is affecting him, like he thinks it’s some comedy sketch when in reality I am getting precariously close to the end of my rope. “It’s odd.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“No. She really calls me a penis wrinkle. How have you not heard her say it? You two are attached at the hip so I find this hard to believe.”

He’s not wrong about his sister and me, but that’s completely beside the point right now.

“You’re just going to stand there talking about penis wrinkles while I’m having a meltdown?”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Anything other than that! Literally anything but talk about penis wrinkles.”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t have anything else to say.”

“Nothing? Not a damn thing?”

“No.”

The way he stares at me, like he doesn’t give a crap about any of the things plaguing my life…it hurts.

I can’t choke back the sob that bubbles up in my throat.

Thick arms wrap around me, stopping my descent before my knees hit the dirty ground, and I’m engulfed in warmth as my cries fill the night.

I don’t know how long we stand here, but it’s long enough for a wet spot to form on Winston’s shirt.

Everything I’ve bottled up for months breaks free. All the late nights, the financial stress, the relationship woes…all of it. I cry it all out, pushing the emotion from my body like I never have before because I need this moment. I need this relief.

I don’t care that I’m breaking down in front of my mortal enemy.

This isn’t about him. This moment is about me.

Winston shifts, his arms flexing around me, and I don’t miss how small I feel inside his embrace.

Has he always been this big compared to me? Has he always been this chiseled? Is he always this warm?

“Knock it off.”

His gruff voice interrupts any inkling of nice thoughts I have regarding him.

I can’t even muster the strength to glare up at him, but his words make me cry harder.

“I said fucking stop. Quit crying, Drew.”

“F-Fuck you,” I stutter.

“No thanks.” He squeezes me, like he can somehow magically tighten his grip and get me to stop. “I’m serious—stop crying.”

“You can’t just command someone to not cry. That’s not how it works.”

“I fucking wish it did. I hate this shit.”

I push away from him. “Well, if you think I like crying in front of you, you’re wrong.” I swipe at the tears and snot covering my face. “If I gave a shit what you thought about me, this would be embarrassing as hell.” I give him a saccharine grin. “But I hate you, so I don’t give a fuck.”

He snorts out a laugh, pulling the cigarette tucked behind his ear free and lighting it up, taking a big hit of nicotine before blowing the cloud of smoke my way. “Right. You hate me.”

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