Page 93 of Striking Range

Realization dawns on him. His hands lose their grip on my shoulders, his eyes widening.

“Oh. So you… So your issue is my safety, then,” he asks quietly.

I roll my eyes. “Um, duh? I mean, if I had it my way, I’d be allowed to touch you whenever I like. It’s honestly kind of irritating, but I can deal with it. For now, at least.”

Everett smiles, and it’s so blinding that I nearly have to squint. A moment later, I’m wrapped up in his arms, his face shoved into my neck.

“My sweet puppy,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry I was so rude. I just got nervous, you know?”

“Why?” I ask, my brain slowly starting its descent into its non-functioning mode. “You know I love you.”

Everett freezes, his arms locking even tighter around me. “You… love me?”

He sounds so awed, so unsure, that I laugh. I laugh hard, because of course I do!

“Obviously. You’ve always known that,” I tell him.

“I knew you loved me, sure. But are you… This time, are you saying that you’re in love with me?”

Oh. Those are two different things, right?

I’ve never been in love before, but some part of me is sure that I am now. The perpetual need to be with him constantly, familiarizing myself with him in every way to the point of viewing him as an extension of myself, and craving his touch and his exclusivity? All of those things indicate being in love, don’t they?

If this isn’t true love, then I have no desire to search for it. I am happy where I am, thank you.

“Yeah,” I confess softly. “In love.”

“Oh my god,” he breathes out, lifting his head from my neck to stare at me with wide, affectionate eyes. “Remind me to ask again once you’re sober.”

I cackle, swaying in his hold. “Do you think sober me will be mad that I told you?”

Everett grins. “Probably.”

And I think he’s right. Sober me hates how vulnerable I can become around him—how I’m slowly transforming from the independent, cocky guy I was before we started this thing and into something soft and pliable. But, in truth, sober me also likes it, too.

“Well, I can worry about that tomorrow,” I say. “For now, take me to bed.”

In an instant, Everett’s eyes heat. He pulls me flush against his body, feeling the length of me align with the length of him.

“Tell me again. Once I have you in bed and you’re begging for more, tell me again,” he demands.

And as the late night fades into early morning, I do. I tell him over and over again, “I love you, I love you,” until I’m covered in come and he’s crying into my neck, holding me so tightly I doubt I’ll ever free myself from his arms.

And thank god for that.

Chapter Eighteen

Everett Young

“We should celebrate your finals! Let’s go out for lunch!” Felicita suggests, clasping her hands together as she beams at me.

“Finals aren’t until tomorrow, Mom,” I tell her.

“Ah, true,” Ash interjects. “But we know you both will exceed expectations—you told us all about how much you’ve been studying on Thanksgiving. Let’s go to D’Oro, the pasta there is phenomenal.”

My chest is aching; the little piece of me where the love of a family is supposed to sit is shrinking just a sliver. His declaration of us exceeding expectations does not feel backhanded this time—Ash sounds like a proud father lovingly stroking his son’s ego.

Just as I’ve always wanted.