Chapter 29

THE UNFOLDING OF US

29

That night, I wait up for Killian to get home.

The moment he steps into the apartment, I attack him with a request. "We need to come up with a great story for our meet-cute." I'm kneeling on the bed like an eager puppy.

He shuffles out of his jacket, kicks off his boots, then melts my flannel pajamas with a single stare—the usual, in short. His head is tilted down, locks of hair falling over his forehead as he looks sideways at me. "Do we have to do it now, or can it wait until another time?"

I wet my lips. "It can wait."

I shuffle to my side of the bed and watch him as he approaches, but he deviates for the bathroom at the last minute. When he comes out, he's still dressed.

I watch as he yanks his T-shirt off, two hands at the back, tugging it over his head. I can't blink or look away. My eyes are glued to the mouthwatering cut of muscles that arches down from his hips toward the top of his low-cut jeans.

As he reveals the smooth, hard planes of his stomach, I remember to breathe. My gaze drifts up to the broad expanse of his pecs and collarbones that I suddenly yearn to kiss.

He unbuttons his pants next, and I simply can't handle it. I turn away, pretending to fiddle with my phone charger on the nightstand until I feel the dip of the mattress and Killian shuffling under the covers next to me. I switch off the lights and finally feel safe enough to face him again.

"Any pointers for how you want the meet-cute to be?" His voice cuts through the night.

"We—err—I mean…" Words. I know how to use them. Put vocables in a coherent sequence to form a phrase. It's simple. "It should be something revoltingly romantic."

I sense the smile more than see it. "Revoltingly romantic, gotcha."

"Great. Goodnight."

A beat of silence and then, "Are you going to pretend you'll keep to your side of the bed, or will you just come over now?"

The air shifts. He's opened his arms to welcome me. "I suppose I could be persuaded to venture over," I tease, not needing any real persuasion at all.

I slide across the sheets and into the safety and warmth of his embrace.

Once I'm settled, Killian drops a soft kiss on top of my head. "I'm sorry about earlier. I didn't mean to be rude to your friend. It's just when you said you were meeting a friend, I assumed it was going to be a woman, and you looked so cozy with him."

I sigh. "Just no more growling, please." I feel like a total hypocrite. If I'd seen him holding hands with a gorgeous woman, I would've probably snarled louder than a famished lioness. Or scratched her eyes out in my imagination, at least. But I'm not about to admit that.

Killian's chest vibrates with a chuckle, his arms tightening around me. "I can't make any promises, but I'll do my best to behave."

The following night, Friday, I'm alone at home. Oliver and I agreed to wait until Monday to break the news of our fake breakup so that Ivy and George won't feel compelled to check on us over the weekend. Meaning that even if I felt like going out, which I don't, I couldn't call my best friend tonight. But it's okay, I'm ready to just relax at home. And for once, I don't feel pathetic about it. I'm content instead. I no longer feel like there's a missing piece in my life.

I shower and change for a quiet night in. I make a quick book unboxing video of a surprise book mail I received for my BookTok account that I've neglected even more than usual lately. Then I curl up in bed for what has become one of my favorite pastimes when I'm alone: reading about Killian and me in our magical book, which now is almost written to the end. I wonder what will happen when the book runs out of blank pages.

Part of me doesn't want to know. Part of me is still scared Killian will disappear, even if he seems more real with every day that passes. At least if our argument of this morning about his stray socks on the floor is an indication.

I pick up the book from the drawer in my nightstand and frown. Something feels weird. I flip the pages and the book lands open over the leprechaun heist chapter in South Bend. It's not by chance because the top right corner of the page is folded into a little neat triangle.

My pulse picks up. Did Killian dog-ear my magical book?

I live with a monster. A book maimer.

I'm half tempted to shoot a picture and ask BookTok if dog-earing should be a deal breaker, but then an even graver suspicion takes over. I go to my shelf and check a few books. And sure enough, some bear the scars of dog-ears.

Oh my gosh. I'm going to kill him. Perfect book boyfriend, my ass. Killian has just gotten his name in red underlined at the top of my shit list.

Fuming, I go back to bed, pointedly undoing Killian's mutilation and shoving a proper bookmark between the pages. That he would even read this behind my back is baffling. I never expressly asked him not to read this book, but he's been sneaky about it.

Still huffing and puffing with indignation, I flip to the last chapter I haven't read. I find it pretty insightful, too. Soon frustration gives way to soft mellowness.

Through the book's eyes, I read about how my relationship with Killian is evolving, deepening in ways neither of us could have predicted. It's funny how the book nails the subtle shift from playful antagonism to something richer, more profound. It captures the essence of our growing bond, noting the moments we start to lean on each other, not just for laughs, but for support, for solace.

Our story speaks of evenings spent in comfortable silence, the easy exchanges that come when you truly know someone. This progression of us, from nemeses to lovers back to strangers and then to being the core of each other's days, it's written in the spaces between our words, the looks we share.

The magic of the book isn't just in its recounting of our adventures, but in its acknowledgment of the quiet moments that truly define us. This narrative, in its whimsical wisdom, charts these changes with a tender accuracy, highlighting the beauty in the mundane. It's in these chapters that I see how much we've grown together, not through grand gestures, but through the accumulation of small, shared experiences that form the bedrock of our connection.

The book doesn't need to spell out the depth of our feelings; it's there in every page, a subtext that's become our story. The way our arguments turn into discussions, and our challenges into opportunities to understand each other better. It's a testament to the slow, steady building of a bond that's as unexpected as it is inevitable.

As I absorb the words, I can't help but marvel at how the story of us, as told by this magical book, mirrors the real, imperfect, beautiful journey we're on together. At least until I reach the last sentence in the chapter:

Because Leighton still didn't know their entire relationship was based on a lie.

I frown. What?

I turn the page, but it's blank. The chapter ends on that nasty little cliffhanger like it's nothing. I scowl and drop the book on the bed. What lie? Did Killian lie to me? About what?

I rack my brain to find something, anything, he could've lied about, but I come up empty-handed.

I check the time, 10p.m. Killian won't be home for at least another four hours. I'm bone tired, but there's no way I'm going to bed without asking him what the book is talking about.

One thing is for sure—I can't just lie here stewing in conspiracy theories. That's how you end up with a case of perennial insomnia, a dozen half-baked hypothesis, and a sudden, unexplainable fear of garden gnomes.

I decide on a distraction. So I do the only thing a half-crazed, love-stricken woman in pajamas can do: I start pacing. My bare feet pad across the floor as I chew on my lower lip, turning over every conversation, every look we've shared since the beginning. The pacing becomes so intense, I'm pretty sure I'm going to wear a path into the floor. I'm like Nancy Drew on a sugar rush, trying to crack a case with nothing but a hunch and an overactive imagination.

Three and a half hours into my one-woman stakeout of our living room, I've concocted approximately twenty-three possible scenarios involving secret second lives and illicit affairs. Is Killian secretly hooking up with someone else? He's the one who insisted on our exclusively non-dating agreement. But men lie. Real men especially.

Just as I'm about to dive into scenario twenty-four, which involves Killian potentially being an international spy (because why not?), the front door clicks open. I freeze mid-pace, and every hair on my body stands to attention.