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NINE

DAYNA

It’s dark when I wake. The only light is coming from the screen flickering in the background. I’m pretty sure I’ve drooled, my neck aches, but worst of all I’m alone.

The space where Dash was sitting before I fell asleep is empty.

Of course, he’s gone. Why the hell would he stay?

I sit up slowly, the muscles in my back and shoulders screaming, but not as loud as the pain in my chest.

You really thought he’d sit around while you drooled on his hoodie?

That ember of hope is doused, as if it never existed. I should have known better. I should have?—

A noise from the kitchen has my head snapping up and a fission of fear splinters my chest.

I’m about to grab something I can use as a weapon when he appears.

He’s carrying a stack of plastic containers against his chest, his tee pulling tight over his muscles.

Dash’s eyes soften as they come to me.

“I was going to wake you once I got everything set up.”

I realise then that my coffee table is overflowing with plates, glasses, drinks, as if we’re about to have a dinner party on the couch.

This time when my heart squeezes, it isn’t in dismay or hurt.

“You did all this?”

He opens the containers, laying them out.

There’s a range of Chinese food that makes my mouth water, and the smell is delicious.

My stomach grumbles in anticipation. I can’t remember the last time I had takeout.

It’s not usually an expense I can stretch to.

Especially not when going out to bars and drinking away my thoughts takes precedent.

“Figured you’d be hungry after you slept.” He says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if taking care of my needs is normal.

I choke back my tears.

No one has ever taken care of me like this. No one ever stuck around long enough to try.

His eyes narrow as I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, my chin wobbling. Don’t fucking cry.

“Dayna?”

Fuck. I glance away so he doesn’t see my pathetic breakdown, but he doesn’t let me. His hand wraps around my nape, soft, not caging but present, and his thumb strokes under my jaw.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t point out that I’m weak for getting upset.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

Before I can form a reply, he shocks the shit out of me by leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to my forehead. It’s not brotherly or familial.

It’s sacramental, like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever touched in his life. And fuck, for once I allow myself to lean into it, to take comfort and care where it’s offered, even if I don’t deserve it.

When he pulls back, I resist the urge to tug him into me, to fall into his arms.

He studies me, and I wait with my breath caught in my chest. Is he going to leave now? Was I too much?

But he doesn’t move. He turns to the table and as if nothing happened, he says, “Wasn’t sure what you like.”

He hands me a plate. It’s one of my favourites. It has little daisies painted on the ceramic and the chip on the rim pisses me off because it ruined something good. I’m that fucking chip.

“You bought enough to feed a small army,” I remark.

He smirks. “Then I hope you’re hungry. Whatever we don’t eat tonight, we can eat tomorrow.”

My head snaps up, the world stilling. There’s a ringing in my ears, a pulsing in my throat.

“You… you want to come back tomorrow?” What is happening? This isn’t normal. Guys don’t stay. They sure as hell don’t feed me.

He nods. “If you’re not busy.” There’s no fanfare or hesitation when he says that. As if he genuinely means he’ll be here.

“I’m working until seven.”

“Then I’ll be here after that.” I don’t move to put out any food. I clutch my plate like a shield. His eyes slide in my direction, that dip appearing between his brows. “You okay?”

I’m not, and I can’t stop the words spilling out, even though I definitely should.

“I thought you left.” Shit, did my voice waver? Did I sound as pathetic as I think I did?

He frowns. “What?”

“When I woke up alone, I thought you left.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s redundant, considering he’s sitting in front of me.

His throat works, his jaw ticking, and he’s angry but not at me. “I wouldn’t just leave without saying goodbye and I fucking hate that someone’s made you think that’s what happens.”

Oh.

Fuck .

If my heart keeps beating the way it is, I’m going to have a heart attack. “But you didn’t leave.”

I shouldn’t care that he stayed. Isn’t that what I want? Easy men, no strings, no one to care.

No one to feel.

But the thought of him walking away makes me feel sick.

The way he looks at me, it’s like he sees things I don’t. And when he speaks, it’s gentle. “I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

I stare at him, trying to read between the lines, but I can’t. I don’t know this scene. It doesn’t usually play out like this.

“I don’t… know what to do with that,” I admit. “Why are you… what are you… what are you expecting from me?”

He puts the container he’s holding on the table and gives me his full attention.

“Nothing. The only thing you need to do, Dayna, is eat the food before it gets cold and pick whatever fucking movie we’re watching next.”

But I don’t care about the food or the movie. I care that he stayed. I care that he’s trying to take care of me. I care that he protected me from something awful and doesn’t expect anything in return.

I don’t think about my actions. I surge towards him and slam my lips to his. It’s a clumsy kiss, bruising and desperate. It feels right, but I doubt it the moment it lands.

What are you doing?

I pull back, or try to, but his hand wraps around my nape, holding me where he wants me, like he thinks I’ll run. Then his mouth devours mine like he’s starved.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I’m just locked in this moment, this blissful moment.

Until he pulls back and I lose his lips.

His breath tears out of him, his hand on my neck grounding. “Babe… no. You don’t have to do this.”

What is he talking about? “I don’t have to kiss you?” I’m confused and ready for the rejection I know is coming. “You don’t want me?”

Rejection coils in my belly, ugly and putrid.

“I want you,” he assures me. “Fuck, baby, I wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you, but you don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to give me yourself because you think that’s what I’m owed.”

I swallow and then do it again because I can’t make my throat work. “I don’t understand.”

He kisses me again, this time soft and reverent. “I know. But you will.” His hand drops from my neck, and he offers me a fork. “We’re gonna eat and hang out. Drooling on me is optional. But that’s it. You don’t owe me anything more than just your presence.”

That settles over me like a weighted blanket. He sees too much. Knows too much and yet he’s still here.

“I don’t feel like I owe you,” I say quietly. “I like being with you.”

Because when I’m with you, I don’t hate myself so much.

And that’s why I let my walls down and give him that moment of raw vulnerability.

“Good,” he murmurs, “because I like being with you too. Even if you have shitty taste in films and snore like a sixty-year-old man.”

I glare. “I don’t snore.”

“Babe, you sound like a chainsaw.”

“You little liar. I don’t?—”

He silences me with a kiss, and I shut up complaining, melting into him. His tongue is divine, and my body is singing by the time he pulls back.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs.

“Ask my mother and she’ll tell you differently.” I speak before I think, whilst in the fog of postcoital ecstasy.

He stiffens. I feel it immediately, and panic seizes my chest. I shouldn’t have said that. He doesn’t need to hear my shit.

“Your mum says you’re not perfect?”

Shit. I wave it. “She’s says a lot of things.”

I try to pull him in for a kiss, to distract, to deflect, but he doesn’t let me. His expression is granite as he peers down at me.

“Well, she’s wrong.” The conviction in his tone surprises me.

“Maybe,” I say, soft as a whisper. “She knows me better than you, though.”

He kisses the side of my mouth, trailing along my cheekbone and down my neck.

“Then she doesn’t see you. You’re not broken, Dayna.

You just shine too bright in a world full of boring fucks.

” My world tilts. Did he really just say that?

“Eat,” he adds, as if he hasn’t just turned my life on its head.

I don’t reply. I can’t. My throat feels like there’s a hand around it. No one has ever told me I shine—other than Katie and Ivy, but they’re morally obligated as my friends to say that shit.

Dash isn’t.

He could have walked away after the other night, never speak to me again. I wouldn’t have blamed him, and yet he just gave me the most dangerous gift—hope.

I shine.

For someone who has always felt like a stone among diamonds, I can’t stop the warmth spreading through me.

And that’s a problem.

But not as big a problem as the fact I’m falling and he’s the only thing I want to land on.