Page 79 of Chasing After You
I’d tried. Goddammit, I’d tried.
I’d flipped my pillow. I’d adjusted the blanket a hundred times. I’d turned off the TV, then turned it back on, then muted it. I’d stared at the ceiling like the plaster might have the answers to all of my questions.
But nothing worked.
My brain just wouldn’t shut up. It wouldn’t stop replaying things—the way Dorian looked when I told him to close the door earlier, and how his face had fallen like a kicked dog. I thought a lot about the way he’d hovered all day, gentle and tentative, like he really was trying to make it up to me.
I sat up slowly, hugging my knees, feeling pathetic.
This wasexactlywhat he wanted, wasn’t it? For me to come crawling back.
And yet…
I wasn’t crawling. I wasn’t. I just… didn’t want to be alone right now.
After a long moment of staring at the bedroom door and silently arguing with myself, I finally swung my legs over the edge of the bed and crept out into the hall.
The house was silent, and his bedroom door was half-closed.
I pushed it open slowly.
The room smelled like him—something clean and dark and warm, like cedarwood and the leather of his jacket and the faintest trace of his cologne.
He was on his side, one arm curled beneath the pillow, silky black hair mussed from sleep. The blanket was pulled to his waist, his shirt tugged slightly up to reveal the soft, pale skin at the small of his back.
I stood there for a moment, just looking.
Then, quietly, I padded over to the empty side of the bed and slid under the covers.
He didn’t stir.
I faced away from him, curled onto my side, and held my breath, like he might wake up and want to talk. We needed to speak, but I just couldn’t right now.
But he didn’t. He just kept sleeping.
And something in me, something small and stupid and tired,unclenched.
Like my body had just been waiting for this—for the weight of him nearby, the sound of his steady breathing, the safety of shared space.
I wasn’t ready to completely forgive him yet, but I didn’t want to hate him, either. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it was even remotely possible for me to hate Dorian. He was my person. Even if he’d fucked up.
Soothed by his presence, I pressed my face into the pillow and finally,finally, let myself fall asleep.
* * *
When I woke up, the sun was already filtering in through the slats of the blinds, painting thin golden stripes across the dark, rumpled bedding. For a moment, I was warm and weightless, cocooned in peace and the kind of stillness that only came after a good, dreamless sleep.
And then I realized I wasn’t alone.
I turned my head slightly and met Dorian’s eyes.
He was lying on his side, propped on one elbow, watching me. His face was unreadable, but his gaze was soft and familiar in a way that made my stomach twist and yearn for a hug.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and hoarse from sleep. “You came to me.”
I didn’t answer right away. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and grounded myself, remembering why I’d come, remembering everything.
“Don’t make it sound like that,” I muttered, voice still scratchy. “It’s not… what you think.”
