Wicked Restless

We drive back to his apartment in a rush, and I notice Andrew’s left leg bouncing with his nerves. He grinds the gear on his car as he pulls into a space along his street, and I hold my lips in a tight line to hide my smirk.

I start to step out from his car on my own, but he tells me to wait, rushing around the front so he can open it for me. He doesn’t grab my hand this time, though, instead, both of his hands tugging at the Tech University tag on his key chain, his fingers wrestling with the apartment key I returned to him after Trent made me a copy of his. He’s nervous as we approach the door, and he drops his keys once in his attempt to unlock his apartment, finally opening the door and gesturing for me to step inside before him. He sets his things on a small table near his door then runs his hands through his hair, completely destroying the combed shape, returning his hair to his normal messy look. I secretly like it better this way.

His hands in his pockets, he steps forward a few paces, his posture nearly perfect and his shoulders raised high as his feet move nervously.

“My plan was to have you open the last box now,” he says, shrugging toward it. I step in that direction, but he begins to talk again, so I stop. “I want you to open it. I do. And I’ll let you. It’s just…when I thought this whole evening out, I was…I don’t know…really…”

“Oh god, were you drunk date-planning?” I tease.

“No!” he says, rolling his eyes. “I was just…I don’t know…overly romanticizing things maybe? And now that we’re here, and I’m standing here, and you’re all beautiful, and you smell good, and you feel good, and I’ve held you, and—”

“Andrew…” I sigh, stepping closer to him, placing a hand on his arm, tugging his hand free from his pocket. I lace my fingers with his, pulling his hand to my lips, and pressing a soft kiss against the back of his hand—leaving my lips there as he watches with his mouth hung open.

“Gah! Emma,” he says, his eyes scanning down the rest of my body now, the heat there this time—the desire and greed mixing with the amber color of his eyes. “You can open the last box,” he says. “Just…if this seems really silly or childish when you see what’s inside, just know that the sentiment is maybe the most adult thing I’ve ever done in my whole goddamned life.”

My heart starts to race, and I have a small panic over what could be in that box. I glance from him to the box and back again a few times, moving my hands slowly to the paper and the lid, checking with him constantly for reassurance. I tear the paper away completely, and lift the lid, still turning to watch Andrew, to watch his reaction. With the lid off, I lean over the large box to look inside, seeing only a small paper folded at the bottom. Andrew nods toward it, urging me to pick it up and open it. I reach in, unfolding it to reveal a simple word written inside.

Me.

My brow pinches as I struggle to understand, but soon Andrew’s hands are around mine, gripping the paper with me.

“Me,” he says, reciting the word. “If you want me—you have me. Or…more clearly…I’m yours.”

I blink, staring at his hands, listening to him hand over his heart, and my own beats louder than it ever has, its strength growing by the second, the thump echoing in my chest.

“God, Emma. I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. From the moment I saw the dark silk of your hair and the storm in your eyes, I was a lost cause…lost to you. I’ve been through hell, and I would go again. I would go willingly, and would charge through the gates if it meant it would keep you safe.”

My lips part open with a tiny gasp, and my chest shudders at the beautiful honesty of his words—of his promise that I in no possible way deserve.

“Andrew, I never should have let you go to that place. I never should have let them take you away. I should have told the truth, defended you, taken your place…” I say, my eyes burning from the tears building somewhere deep and buried within me.

Andrew moves to me quickly, his hands finding my face, his thumbs erasing the tears as they fall and his eyes searing through mine. “That’s the thing, though,” he says. “I never would have let you. You get to come first. I don’t have a choice, Emma, the universe wants you to be my reason for living. I’m a slave to its demand. And I will lo…” Andrew stops his speech suddenly, his body rigid and his eyes scared as hell as they stare back into me.

He shuts them; one small tear escapes, leaving a wet trail along the rough stubble of his face. Such a soft moment on something so hardened and masculine—a face still lightly bruised and battered from aggression cries for me now. His eyes are clear when he reopens them, and I fall into him completely.