Page 69 of Going Viral for Christmas
“No,” I say, surprised. “It’s good. Excellent, actually. You used sacred twice though.”
Soren’s head tilts. He checks it. “Hm, so I did.” His eyes peer up at me, mischief swimming in them. “Wanna trade notes?”
I hesitate—then nod, grinning. “Sure. I’m warning you though, I’m ruthless with adverbs.”
Soren’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. “That’s okay. I overuse em-dashes like I get paid for it.”
We settle side-by-side on the edge of his bed, knees brushing, a nervous quiet filling the space between us.
This is where he sleeps. Right here, in this space. Probably sprawled out with one arm behind his head, the other thrown across the pillow, owning the universe.
The thought shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it does. And now I can’t stop wondering what he dreams about—if he tosses and turns, if he wakes up swaddled in the sheets.
Has he ever thought about me while lying right here?
I shift slightly, and my knee bumps against his. Neither of us moves to break the contact.
He hands me a page, and I pass one back.
Our notes start playful, him teasing me for a sarcastic margin comment, me calling him out on an overly brooding line of internal monologue. Somewhere along the way, the tone morphs into thoughtful. Mutual. Exposed.
“You could go deeper here,” I say, tapping a paragraph. “You keep pulling away right when it starts to hurt. Let it sting.”
After reading over the spot I marked, he glances up at me. “You always this thorough in revisions?”
“Yeah, I am.”
He’s quiet for a second too long before he says, “I appreciate thorough.”
A heavy invisible weight settles between us. Surprisingly, it’s notuncomfortable. Just... honest. Unexpectedly easy. A little scary. Okay, a lot.
Eventually, I circle back to the real reason I knocked on his door.
“So, listen.” I fold one knee under me. “About Thanksgiving.”
His expression shutters slightly.
“Why don't you come home with me. Fisher is coming too.”
One of his brows quirks.
I rush ahead. “PR, of course. Fisher thought it might solidify how serious we are. Show the fans a softer side. Make you more ‘relatable.’” I hold up a piece of his manuscript with the word scribbled next to a highlighted paragraph and smile.
Nodding once, his shoulders fall, and the space between us suddenly feels a lot wider than it did a second ago.
Pressing my lips together, I swallow my pride. “Nobody should be alone on the holidays. Least of all you.”
His head turns. Our eyes meet.
“I’d like it if you came with me,” I add. “Us, I mean.”
Stormy eyes search mine, trying to decode the real reason tucked between the words. He wants to believe me. He just doesn’t know how.
“You sure?” he asks, voice stripped of its usual swagger.
Nodding, my fingers brush against a corner of the pillow resting on his bed. “Yeah. I mean… my mom’s going to freak out. I haven’t even told her about us. My dad will want to know what your true intentions are with his daughter, which will prompt the ‘what about grandchildren’ questions from my aunts. My uncle will absolutely tell you his theories about time travel while mixing you a mind-altering cocktail. And there’s a ninety percent chance you’ll be force-fed pie by someone you’ve never met, but will absolutely fall in love with, which is my grandmother.”
His lips twitch. “Sounds terrifying.”
