Page 51 of Chasing After You
I memorized his drink orders, the way he liked his pasta cooked, and the scent of his favorite shower gel. I’d text him reminders about things before he remembered them himself. Told him when he needed a jacket, told him I’d take care of choosing the places I took him for lunches and dinners, told him I liked it when he wore softer, lighter clothes rather than the alpha jock shit that didn’t truly suit him.
It wasn’t just watching him anymore.
It was knowing him.
And using that knowledge like a thousand invisible threads to pull him ever closer.
I complimented him in offhand ways.You always smell good.You’re so good at following instructions. Those pants would look much better on you. I could live off your lattes. How do you come up with so many interesting recipes? What shampoo do you use? It makes your hair so soft.
I let him catch me looking.
I caught him looking back.
I hardly ever called him brother anymore. Not unless someone else was around. And even then, my voice always twisted around the word like it tasted wrong in my mouth. Ihad nothing against the word itself, despite my dislike for it. I actually loved what it meant to us. I loved that it meant that I knew him better than anyone else in the world. I just hated how he used it as an excuse. As a reason why he didn’t want me to be so close.
Sometimes I’d say his name like a prayer. Sometimes I didn’t say anything at all—I’d just look at him in that way that made him fidget and glance away like he was afraid of what I saw when I looked too long.
I knew he was trying to keep the peace. Knew he was hiding things from his friends. Knew he had already stopped telling Oliver every little thing like he used to. I knew he was minimizing my behavior in his own head.
He’s just weird.
He’s just lonely.
He’s just Dorian.
I wanted to tell him what I really was.
I wanted to ask if he dreamed about me, too.
But I didn’t.
I played the long game. The gentle one. The kind where you make someone fall into you without realizing they’re falling at all.
Because I didn’t want Josh to be afraid again.
I wanted himto want—no,needme. Crave me.
And lately, I started to see the changes. In the way his gaze would drop to my mouth when I talked too close. In the way he leaned in when he laughed, like he was unconsciously trying to touch me. In the way he never corrected me when I called him mine. In the way his pupils expanded when my hands lingered for too long. In the way he melted in relief when I made decisions for him.
He was warm clay in my hands.
Still soft. Still shaping.
I wasn’t trying totrickhim.
I was trying to show him that everything he needed was already within me. That I’d beenhisbefore either of us knew what that meant.
So I kept close.
Never too far.
Never too fast.
And every night, I dreamed of the moment he’d stop pretending he didn’t feel it too.
I wanted him to come onto me. But for that to happen, I needed to move forward with my plan.
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