Page 18 of Absinthe Dreams
His lips curve into a smile. "I asked if you were hungry."
"Oh. Um…" I trail off with a suspicious nod. Why is he being all…smiley and weird?
His hand grazes my side. "Why don't you sit and enjoy your coffee? I'll make you something."
"I can cook."
"It's fine, baby. I want to cook for you."
I take a sip of coffee, staring at him. He's definitely being weird. He's calling me baby. He's still smiling. And he's being less demanding than usual. "Did you have a stroke?"
"What?" He shoots me a look over his shoulder as he pulls open the fridge. "No."
"Did you fall while walking Thanos? Hit your head?" I narrow my eyes on him. "Do you have a fever? Did you find out you have six months to live?"
His chuckle does wicked things to my clit. "No to all of the above, Coco."
Oh, he isdefinitelybeing weird.
"You haven't called me that since I was sixteen," I mutter.
"What? Yes, I have." He emerges from the fridge, juggling a carton of eggs, milk, and a pack of bacon.
"No, you haven't." I prop a hip against the counter, staring at him. "The last time you called me Coco was on my sixteenth birthday."
I remember because we had a big argument at my party. He was being bossy, complaining about my outfit. I was so mad at him that I didn't even say bye when he left. But he texted me at nearly midnight to tell me that I looked beautiful and that he should have told me that. He wished me a happy birthday.You deserve for every single one of your dreams to come true, Coco.
I wasn't done being mad, so I left him on read.
The very next time I saw him, he was standoffish and weird, and everything was worse than ever between us. I read those late-night birthday texts over and over for months. And when my phone broke eight months later and I lost them, I cried like a baby. It felt like losing the last little piece of the sweet, loving boy I once knew.
He deposits everything on the counter silently and then turns to face me. "Maybe I miss how things used to be between us," he says, his eyes locked on my face. "Maybe it's time for a truce."
"Why?" I ask, not because I'm averse to the idea—the exact opposite, actually—but because Ineedto know why. Does he actually want to be my friend again, or is this just because of what he heard last night? Is this some way of getting me to sleep with him? Not that I'm averse to that, either. But I swear to God, I will smother him with his own pillow if he thinks he can sleep with me and then go back to the way things have been for the last decade.
I don't want little pieces of him in secret. I'll never be content with that. And I'm tired of being mad at him. I'm tired of missing him.
I'm just tired.
"Maybe I miss you," he says, his voice soft and sincere. "Christ, Clo, you and I were inseparable once upon a time. I knew every goddamn secret you had, and you knew mine, too. Now, I have to practically beg you to tell me anything about your life or what's going on with you. I'm trying to fix it. Please, just…let me."
One thing Trystan isn't is vulnerable. He doesn't ask for anything. He doesn't beg either. He's secure and confident. But I see the vulnerability in his gaze right now. I hear the plea in his voice. He needs this, perhaps for the same damn reason I do.
"I never hated you," I whisper.
"What?"
I lick my lips to work moisture back into my mouth. "I heard you when you came into my room last night. I never hated you, Trystan.Never."
Surprise flares in his eyes, followed by the kind of relief that has tears stinging the backs of my eyes.
"Jesus," he rasps, closing the distance between us to drag me up against his chest. He wraps his arms around me in a tight hug, his face buried in my hair. His breath shudders from his body in a soft groan that's part salvation, part healing.
I cling to him, just letting him hold me. For long moments, neither of us moves. We just stand there, wrapped up in each other in a way we haven't been since we were kids. God, I don't even remember the last time we hugged. But this one is beautiful, like coming home and building something new all at once.
I don't want to let him go. The way he holds me, his breath rasping in my ear, I don't think he wants to let go either. So we just…don't. We cling silently right in the middle of the kitchen, recovering the pieces of ourselves we buried under unkind words and long stretches of icy silence.
We only break apart when Thanos tries to shove his way between us.
