Page 78 of Under the Texas Sky
“You made it.” Kian smiles.
“Did you expect me not to?”
He steps to the side, giving me enough room to squeeze through the door without brushing against him. The floral scent of his shampoo sets my body on fire. He’s here. He’s not running away from me.
He doesn’t answer, but he grabs my free hand and twines his fingers between mine while he leads us to the elevator. The smooth skin of his palm against mine reminds me of how much has changed since he left, but how I feel about him has stayed the same.
I expect him to drop my hand, but he doesn’t. Not until we walk into the room. The area is sparsely furnished, but the freshly made bed in the center of the room is the main attraction. Nope. Not thinking about the bed. Or how good Kian would look spread across it.
I place one of the bags on the computer desk and the other on the ground.
“What did you bring me?” Kian asks. “God, I hope it’s chocolate. I don’t need chocolate, but I’ve been thinking about the ones you used to buy from the store all the time. I have yet to find any as good.”
Thank fuck for small blessings, because I do in fact have those chocolates he used to like. It’s nice to know that, after all this time, there’s still a part of me that knows him.
I open the bag on the desk and pull out the bottle of sparkling cider, two boxes of chocolates, and a fresh pan of pasta. I wanted something easy, but not too easy that he would think that I don’t care about impressing him.
Handing him one box of the chocolates, I open the other bag for the plates, forks, cups, and a card game. If we’re going to hangout, we’re going to make it just like old times. Back before time got the best of us.
“Oh my god, I could kiss you,” he says, moaning around a bite of chocolate.
I wish he would kiss me.
He must see my desperate look, because his smile turns sheepish while he sets the half-eaten chocolate back into the wrapper. “Uhm–I meant–”
I cut him off by raising my hand in a stop motion. “It’s fine, Ki, I promise.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to, I really do. But I don’t want it to bejustthat. Please understand,” he pleads, his green eyes shining bright and glassy underneath the white overhead lights.
How could I not understand? Is that not my same concern? Of course it is. Because being physical has never been a problem between us. Hugging, kissing, even sex has always come as easily as breathing. Us being connected in any way was my own version of nirvana.
Communicating is what we’ve always been terrible at.
It’s my goal to change that for us this time, to show him that we can talk about things without it always leading to petty arguments.
"I know, Ki, I know.” I walk over to him cautiously, waiting for him to tell me to stop, and I’ll respect his wishes.
He doesn’t push me away, instead opening his arms wide, and I step into them. His palms land on my lower back, rubbing the area, and I want to moan in delight from the soft touch. We stand like that, the two of us cocooned in each other and sharing the same air.
I clear my throat and step back, trying to not let the tears fall out of my eyes. I’ve been so lonely without him and now being in his presence is overstimulating my emotions. The spectrum from happy, to desperate, to needy is insane. He would think I’m nuts if he had a moment alone with my brain.
“I brought dinner and sparkling cider as well. I hope that’s okay.”
“Sounds great to me.” He smiles at me, and I can’t stop myself.
I lean forward and press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, the smell of chocolate on his breath wafting over me. From this close, I can count each individual freckle, admiring them like stars in their very own sky. “You sit, and I’ll bring you a plate.”
His eyes are wide, and I hope I didn’t fuck anything up. But he listens, pulling the computer chair from the far side of the desk and sitting in it close to me while I plate up the tortellini and fresh rolls that I brought.
I place it in front of him, then pour him a glass of sparkling cider. It’s probably dumb, but I love sparkling cider now. It’s not something I drink often. I typically use it as a treat to myself. Taking part in it with Kian over dinner is something I’ve dreamed of for the past two and a half years.
“Does this help with your sobriety?” He asks, swirling the bubbles around the cup and keeping his eyes on me.
My mouth is dry, my tongue sticking to the roof and it takes a Herculean effort to get my lips to move. “Yeah, it does,” I confirm and attempt to wet my lips. He nods, and drops his gaze down to his drink.
“Good, I’m glad that it helps. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”
It’s been hard without him, but I’m not going to put that blame on his shoulders. It’s no one’s fault but my own. I don’t need to hear his flowery words about being sober and how I’m moving past my addiction. I’ll keep taking it the same way I have since before he left. “One step at a time,” I say. Kian lifts his glass in a cheers motion and we tap the plastic together.
