20. Wildflower

20

Wildflower

Say Thank You

The rasp of knuckles sounds from the other side of my office door. They're not hesitant like Adam's, not delicate like Scarlett's, not clipped like Jeremiah's. Leo never knocks.

It's a comforting feeling that I've grown to know my colleagues well enough to understand who's knocking on my door just by the sound.

There is only one person who knocks with the back of their hand, knuckles clattering against the wood in a rough tone.

"Come in, Mr. Ramos," I call from my desk chair.

The door swings open, and he takes up the entirety of the entryway. He leans against the frame in a long sleeve Hurley stretched tight across his broad chest, a pair of black jeans, and boot-clad feet crossed at the ankles. Eyes glittering with mischief, he flashes me that wicked smile. "Mr. Ramos? I like that." Stepping into my office, he places what appears to be an iced coffee on my desk.

"What's that?" I ask, nodding toward the plastic cup.

"I'm closing up Heathen's today, so I swung through Dutchies on my way over from the shop. I figured you might need an afternoon pick-me-up." He briefly glances down at the cup in his own hand, appearing almost bashful. "I asked them to whip up the most ridiculous concoction they could think of."

I laugh, reaching across the desk and grabbing the drink. As I take a sip, I'm blasted with the taste of pumpkin, cinnamon, cream, and something else I can't quite place. "Pumpkin spice with cream…" I take another sip. "I can't figure out what else is in here. Something sweet." I drink again. It's fucking good, though.

Everett smiles. "It's supposed to be a pumpkin glazed maple donut…or maple glazed pumpkin donut? I don't remember. I added three shots of espresso too."

"Three shots? Shit. I'm going to be up all night." I can't stop myself from drinking more, though. "Thank you. It's good. Maybe I'll try making some real maple glazed pumpkin donuts…or whatever." I grin at him, nodding toward his drink. "What'd you get?"

"That thing you kept getting last week. The s'mores drink."

I hum. "Toasted marshmallow mocha with a splash of almond." I beckon for him to hand me his drink. "Let me see if you ordered it right."

He rolls his eyes. "I ordered it exactly the way you told me to." He hands the cup out to me anyway, and our fingers brush as I take it from his grasp.

I don't let him see the way I savor the warmth of his skin in these small touches, the way he sometimes holds my hand when he walks me to my car, or when he places his hand on my back as we walk along the pier at lunch. We haven't gone beyond those stolen touches and longing glances in the two weeks since Halloween, haven't talked about that night, how close we came to kissing. It wasn't because anyone was watching or because either of us had something to prove. That moment was private and intimate, just for us.

Everett didn't kiss me. He simply pressed his lips to my forehead and told me goodnight before he let himself out. I told myself I was thankful we didn't cross that line, but I went to bed that night feeling nothing but his absence.

I bring the straw of his drink to my mouth, and I don't miss the way his eyes flare as I wrap my lips around it and take a sip. The warm, rich taste of marshmallow and chocolate hit my tongue, mixed with the hint of coffee and almond, and I find myself letting out a moan.

"Yeah," I say as I pull away, handing his coffee to him. "You ordered it right."

He laughs, and our hands brush again as he takes the coffee from me. He leans back against the conference table, and I fall into my chair, propping my feet up on my desk. I find my eyes stuck on his hands, on the rough calluses on his knuckles, forged by long hours working on engines and covered by intricate artwork framing his fingers and running along his veins. Vines of roses crawl up the backs of his hands and wrap around his fingers. Small stars, trees, and other flowers dot the spaces in between.

I can't help but wonder if there is any rhyme or reason to the designs, if they mean something deeper. I think about all the tattoos that flow through his arms and onto his neck.

"What, Wildflower?" he asks, voice rough and heavy.

My eyes snap to his face and realize he was watching me study him. "Oh." I clear my throat, feeling flustered. "I was just… Your tattoos. Do any of them mean anything?"

"Some of them do." He glances down at his hand, flexing it as he studies the ink. "But August owns the tattoo parlor a few doors down. Years ago, when he was still learning, I basically let him use my skin as a practice canvas, so some of the designs are just that—designs he wanted to try out or drawings he made. Some of them mean something to me."

"The flowers?"

He smiles to himself. "Roses on one hand for my sister. Her middle name is Rose. Zach…" He swallows. "Zach used to call her Rosebud. She hated it. Zach and I both got rose tattoos when we were drunk one night. We were just fucking around, provoking her." His eyes close as he shudders, as if remembering something hurtful. "I'm glad I have them now, though. It's something that keeps us connected."

He sets his coffee down on the table behind him and looks at his other hand. "I got the violets on this hand to make up for the other one. They're her favorite flowers, and purple is her favorite color. Plus, Violet is her pen name. So, I got this done the first time she became a bestseller. She has a matching design that runs down one of her arms but ends at the wrist. Mine starts there, so that connects us too."

"Do you miss her?" I ask.

He looks up at me, and I see raging emotion in those eyes. "So much."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "Has she visited since she moved?"

He shakes his head. "No. Never, though she claims she's coming home for Christmas this year. So, we'll see."

I only nod, unsure what else to say. My sister is my best friend, and I don't know how I would handle not seeing her regularly.

Everett clears his throat, attempting to shake off the heaviness in his voice. "Do you have any tattoos?"

I huff a laugh, rising from my chair and rounding my desk until I'm standing in front of him. I turn around and sweep the hair from the back of my neck, showing him the one piece of ink I have on my nape.

I shiver as the feel of his fingers run down the length of it. "Why a compass?" he asks, letting his hand linger against my skin.

"I got it on my nineteenth birthday," I say. "I've always liked compasses. What they represent, at least. Lord knows I can't read one." We both chuckle. "I think they're beautiful in a practical way. They have purpose, but they're also symbolic. I don't know." I'm rambling now. His touch makes me unable to think straight. "I got it to remind myself that I'm the navigator of my own life." Everett's hand leaves my neck, and I let my hair drop as I spin to face him. "Which is hilarious, considering that, just a couple of months after getting that tattoo, I found out I was pregnant. Ever since, my life has been heading in every direction but the one I intended."

Everett's eyes are fierce as they study me. "Maybe that just means life was sending you in the direction you were destined for instead." He slowly reaches out and grasps the necklace at my throat, the small golden compass pendant. "Is that the reason for the necklace, too?"

I glance down, watching the way he twists the chain back and forth between his fingers. My pulse kicks up at his proximity—the way it feels when his thumb briefly rubs against my neck. "Like I said, I like compasses," I say breathlessly. He smiles, as if realizing the effect his touch has on me. "Darby bought me this necklace years ago."

"Lou plays with it when she's nervous."

I nod. "Yeah, she's done that since she was a baby. I bought her a matching one for her last birthday, but she lost it. I haven't been able to find a replica."

He hums in acknowledgment but doesn't respond as his eyes stay glued to my chest. Mine are watching his mouth as his tongue snakes out from between his teeth and swipes along his lips. There's hunger in his gaze, hunger and longing and something more.

I watch those deep brown eyes run the length of my throat, studying the curve of my jaw and the breath filtering through my lips before they reach my own. I wonder if I've got the same need in my face that he's giving me right now.

I hear a shuffle of papers nearby, realizing that my office door is open. Scarlett and Jeremiah are standing at their desks, pretending not to pay attention, even though they totally are. They must've just gotten back from lunch…or wherever they were. I can't remember. Truthfully, I can't remember much past the way Everett's hand feels at my neck.

He drops it, and I step back to create space between us.

We both clear our throats, glancing around the room and looking at anything besides the other's eyes. "Thank you for the coffee." The words come out high and cracked from my flustered voice.

"Always, Wildflower," he says, sounding the same.

Are you awake?

I send the text to Everett, feeling stupid the second it says delivered. I sound like a fucking teenager.

Am now.

Can't sleep, Wildflower?

No. And it's your fault.

It's just past midnight, and my entire household is dead asleep, but I have enough energy to run a marathon. Not that I actually ever would, of course. I figure, if I'm going to lay in bed all night thinking about the man who can't seem to ever leave my head, I might as well make him keep me company.

I don't know what you were thinking. Three shots of espresso? You're insane.

Maybe this was my plan all along. ;)

What? Keeping me up all night?

Why would you wanna do that?

Maybe I wanted you to text me.

And why, Mr. Ramos, would you want me texting you so late at night?

I dunno…

So, anyway… What're you wearing?

I laugh out loud as his second text comes through, clamping a hand over my mouth to stay quiet. I bite my lip. God, he's actually making me feel like a giddy fucking teenager.

It has been so long since anyone has been able to make me feel like this.

Shameless flirt.

Only with you, Wildflower.

Really, though. I am sorry. For overloading you with espresso.

But also…what are you wearing?

Another giggle escapes me, and I can feel myself blushing behind my phone. I take a moment to consider what to say next and, knowing that it's probably a horribly bad idea, I reach over and turn on the lamp beside my bed before throwing the comforter off my body.

Everett makes me feel young and dumb, which somehow makes me feel carefree and brave and wild. So, I let those feelings guide me as I walk over to my dresser and open the top drawer. I'm wearing a Wichita State t-shirt and a pair of gray, high-waisted briefs that are at least three sizes too big, but Everett doesn't need to know that.

I tear through my drawer until I find a pair of black, all lace boy-shorts. Changing out my underwear and crawling back into bed, I lay on my side, hiking one leg over the other. I lift my t-shirt so just a glimpse of skin shows between the gap of my top and my panties, skin on full display beneath the lace. I bring one hand up to the center of my chest, and angle my camera so that it catches my entire body between my bent knee and my chin.

Before I allow myself to think any further, I snap the photo and send it to Everett.

He immediately reads the message. Three bubbles pop up, letting me know he's typing, before they disappear again, and my stomach plummets. "Shit."

I press and hold down the photo, trying to figure out if there is a way to unsend it, though I know it's too late and he already saw it. "You're so fucking stupid, Dahlia," I groan into my pillow. Still trying to figure out how to unsend the message, I jump when my phone begins vibrating in my hand.

Everett's contact pops up on my screen—he's FaceTiming me.

I reach across my bedside table and grab my AirPods, connecting them and placing one in each ear before hesitantly answering the call. I check my reflection on the screen, brushing my ratted hair from my face and pinching some color into my cheeks and lips.

"Hi," I say awkwardly, my voice shaking as I hold the phone up to my face.

Everett's sitting up against his headboard, ridiculously gorgeous bare chest staring back at me, brown eyes on fire. "Is that really what you're wearing right now?"

"Yes?"

I watch his throat work as he swallows. "Show me."

There's a challenge glimmering in his face, and I decide to throw caution to the wind, meeting it head-on. I shrug back down the bed so I'm on my back, slowly angling my phone screen down so that my chest, stomach, and legs become visible. My shirt is long enough that it covers the apex of my thighs, but I lift the hem slightly, showing off the black band of the lace underwear against my hips.

"Fuck," he rasps. "That's what you wear in bed at night when you're thinking of me?"

I put the camera back on my face, raising a brow. "Who said I was thinking of you?"

"You texted me."

"Because it's your fault I can't sleep."

He lifts one arm and places it behind his head, biceps flexing with the movement. Flashing me that wicked fucking grin, he says, "You know what they say can help with falling asleep?"

I gasp, feigning offense. "Mr. Ramos, are you proposing Facetime sex with me right now?"

He bites his lip, hiding a smile. "I'm just saying… As your boyfriend , I'm here to assist with all your needs, Wildflower. Whatever it is they may be."

"Fake boyfriend," I correct him, ignoring the way he bristles. "And I'm not sure what you think I need help with, but I can manage on my own."

"I know something you need help with."

I turn on my side, propping my phone up against my pillow. "What's that?"

He smirks. "You're embarrassed about the way you come. That you squirt."

My face flames. I drop my phone onto the bed so he can no longer see it. "I can't believe you just said that."

"C'mon, Dal." His voice is muffled through the speaker covered by my pillow. "You shouldn't be embarrassed about it. Do you have any idea how fucking sexy it is?"

I grab the phone again. "It is not sexy."

His jaw ticks beneath his perfectly manicured beard. "Who the fuck told you that?"

I roll my eyes as I turn over onto my back. "I don't want to talk about it."

He's quiet for a moment, contemplating. "Fine. We don't have to talk about it, but whoever he is, he's a fucking asshole, and he's dead wrong."

I don't know how to respond or how to look at him, so I stare at myself in the mirror hung against my bedroom door on the other side of the room. I wasn't lying when I told him it was something I could normally only do to myself. Only once, before Everett, had I…come like that with another man. He definitely did not find it sexy, and he had no interest in seeing me again afterwards.

"Have you ever watched yourself?" he asks.

"What?"

"Have you ever watched yourself…come?"

"God, no." I laugh. "That's horrifying."

His eyes soften as he studies me through the screen. "You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?"

I open my mouth, but words don't come out. I don't think there are any to respond to what he's said, to describe the way he makes me feel.

"You're so beautiful, Dal. All the time. When you're done up and when you're dressed down. In the middle of the night and in the light of day. God," he laughs breathlessly, "you're fucking stunning, including when you're coming. I've been blessed to see it, so trust me when I say that."

"I…" I swallow. "I don't know that I'd be able to agree with you, especially if I was watching myself…like that."

His lips tilt up again. "Maybe you just need to be coached through it."

I feel the flush on my cheeks deepen at that. "Everett..." I sigh, but I can't bite back the smile on my lips.

"Like I said…just say the word, baby. I'm here to help." He winks at me, and I feel a shot of warmth flood my core.

He's patient, soft brown eyes burning through me like he knows I'm contemplating something, like he's waiting for me to make my decision. That slow smile overtakes his full lips, and he runs a rough hand across his beard.

I remember what those lips felt like against my skin, the words that mouth whispered in my ear, the caress of those hands along my curves, and the flare in those eyes when he came. I remember how he lost himself inside me, how he reveled in the way I made him feel. I remember the power that gave me, the way it made me feel wild and alive.

I realize that, whether he's watching me or not, my hand is going to be slipping between my legs tonight before I'm able to find sleep, and he's going to be on my mind as I chase that ecstasy.

"Everett," I whisper, voice breaking on his name. "If I were to…touch myself. What…" God, the look in his eyes makes me feel like a timid schoolgirl talking to her crush for the first time. I shake it away and will confidence into my tone. "What would you do?"

"Whatever you want, Wildflower." His voice is like silk, running along my skin in soft caress. "You want me to talk you through it? Tell you how pretty you are when you squirt?"

I let my eyes flutter closed. "I want you to…" I trail off, unsure how to make the request. I know I won't be able to get myself there, not with him watching, not unless he's giving me the same level of vulnerability. I want his presence—his words and his voice—but I can't be the only one of us crossing this line.

"You want me to fuck myself, Dahlia? Tell you how I dream of you when I close my eyes? Pretend it's your mouth instead of my hand? Or how I imagine I'm fucking your tight, wet pussy again?"

"Fuck." The word flies from my mouth on a moan as my fingers slip between the band of my underwear, feeling the wetness already pooled between my legs. "Yes."

"You have a mirror in your room, baby?"

I nod as I brush my clit, a quiet whimper escaping me.

"Get out of bed and go sit in front of your mirror. I want you to see your entire body."

I throw the blankets off my legs and all but leap out of bed, taking my phone with me. The full-length mirror bolted to the back of my door runs the entire length of it, nearly touching the floor. I sit down, leaning back against the foot of my bed and facing the mirror.

"Prop me up somewhere so I can see you."

Coming up to my knees, I place my phone on the shoe rack next to the door and angle it so the entirety of my body can be seen within the frame. I can still see Everett's face as I fall back against my bed, his eyes glimmering with hunger.

"You listen so well, Wildflower. Doing so good for me, baby." I can see the movement of his arm pumping his length, and I run my eyes along it until it disappears from the screen. His tone turns rough and strained with each movement. "Now, take off that shirt."

I shake my head. "I'm not taking off my shirt."

He pauses, brows coming together at his forehead in concern. "You're not comfortable with that." It's not a question, but I nod. "Why, Dal?"

My name from his mouth settles something deep inside my body. "I had a baby."

He tilts his head. "And?"

I sigh. "And… I breastfed. My… They're not…" My breasts don't look like they belong to a twenty-nine-year-old. One of them is permanently bigger than the other, and they're definitely not as perky as I think most would expect to see from a woman my age. Plus, I have stretch marks and veins and ripples.

"Don't finish that sentence." He sits up straighter, as if he wishes he could reach through the phone and grab my face, force my focus to his eyes. "It is infuriating to me how blind you are to your own beauty." I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling the flush run up my neck. "Look at me, Dahlia." He doesn't speak again until I listen. "I'm going to make sure you understand how pretty I find you. Every single piece of you. Every part of your body that made you who you are. All of it is beautiful to me."

There is such ferocity in his brown eyes, such intent, and I can't bear to do anything other than nod.

He settles back, getting comfortable again. "When I tell you how beautiful you are, you're not going to argue with me about it. You're going to thank me, and you're going to fucking listen. Am I understood?"

I nod again, but his face is still hard as he says, "Now, I'm going to ask you to take off your shirt and show me those tits I've been dreaming about. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with, Dahlia, but I'm begging you to let me see that body, baby. Show me what you're afraid of, and watch me fucking worship it."

I don't know if this man took a class on how to say exactly the right thing at the right moment, or if he's just somehow inherently wired to know what I need, but those words have me sitting up on my knees and pulling my t-shirt over my head. Knowing I'm not wearing a bra, I toss it to the side, keeping my eyes closed as I hear Everett's breath hitch. My entire body is on display for him now—save for the lace underwear that leave essentially nothing to the imagination.

I crack one eye open, terrified to see the expression on his face. I try not to be ashamed of my body. I mean, it made an entire human fucking being. But at the end of the day, you don't see stretch marks, cellulite, or misshapen boobs on models. You don't see it on perfect people like my sister, or I'm sure any number of the women Everett's been with.

But when I do look at him again, it's pure captivation I see on his face. His eyes rapidly roam across my body, like he doesn't know where to look, like he needs to soak all of it in before it disappears. His arm begins moving again, and he lets out a groan that echoes inside my ear, letting me know he's fisting his length.

"Dahlia," he rasps, eyes meeting mine. "I speak three fucking languages— three —and when I tell you that there is not one word in any of them to describe the way you look right now. You're beyond beauty. You're beyond comparison to anything in this plane of existence. You're something beyond comprehension. Unreal."

"Everett," I whisper. I've never been told something like that before. I've never heard words uttered with such raw emotion, like they're flying straight through his chest and out his mouth. I've forgotten where our conversation was going, what we were supposed to be doing.

All I know is that I'm sitting on my bedroom floor, nearly naked, staring into the eyes of a man who just sputtered poetry without thought because he saw my breasts for the first time.

As if realizing it too, Everett shakes his head and clears his throat. "Do you want to see what you do to me, Dahlia? Do you want me to show you?"

"Yes." The words come out as a high-pitched squeal, and I will myself to quiet, at risk of waking up my child—or worse, my sister—and having them walk in on the current scene.

Everett smiles knowingly. "Lay against the bed and take off those panties, baby." I listen immediately, falling back and kicking my legs out in front of me. I lift my hips and slip the lace down my legs before kicking it to the other side of my room. "Can you see yourself in the mirror, Wildflower?"

I nod.

"Good. Now, spread those legs and show us both how pretty that pussy is."

His words rush through me, anticipation coiling in my stomach and snapping tight. The buzzing at the center of my thighs has my skin on fire, desperate with the need to touch myself, the need to feel him touch me too. I slowly widen my knees, displaying my sex for us. We both look at where I'm spread, the wetness at my center apparent in the low light.

" Me moriría de sed por ahogarme en ti ," he rasps, and I know he can see the way my body trembles at the words I can't understand but somehow still feel inside me. "Tell me how beautiful it is, Wildflower. Tell me you know how pretty that dripping pussy is."

A whimper erupts from my throat, and I can't stop myself as I run a finger through my slit, my arousal coating my hand. "You told me I only had to say thank you."

His laugh is rich and taunting. "Fine. I'm going to tell you how pretty you are, then. Your perfect little cunt is the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen. Is it all wet for me, baby?"

"Yes," I moan. "Thank you."

He laughs again. "Show me what makes you lose yourself. Show me what makes you explode the way you did all over my cock."

I bite my lip, feeling the flush rise to my cheeks and spread throughout the entirety of my body. I feel that coil tightening around me, my body begging for release, for sensation. I hold myself still, though, keeping two fingers just above my clit. "You said you'd show me first."

"Fuck." His voice is so deep, it's a near growl. I watch as his camera turns around, and I'm suddenly met with his intimidating length. Strong, muscular thighs are partially covered by a dark blue blanket, his room accented in the same low light as mine. His cock—so massive, I'm unable to believe it fit inside me—is standing erect, his beautiful, tattooed hand fisting his length hard and fast. "Do you see this, Dahlia? This is all you, baby. Only you on my mind every time I fuck myself since the night I met you."

I bite my lip, hard enough to taste the tang of my blood as I hold back a moan. I slowly lower my hand between my legs and dip two fingers inside myself, curving them to hit just the right spot on my innermost wall, pressing my palm against my clit.

"That's right, baby. Show me what feels good so I know what to do next time."

"You already know what to do," I whisper breathlessly as I move my fingers in and out of myself, picking up speed with each pump. My eyes dart back and forth between watching myself in the mirror and watching his cock on my phone's screen.

His laugh is rough, skating down my skin like a teasing touch. "You mean when I bent you in half and fucked you against that door?"

I let out a hum, watching both our hands as they pick up speed, as we climb toward that peak—toward the freefall into ecstasy.

"But next time, I'm going to do so much more than just fuck you, Wildflower. I'm going to make you forget your own name, forget how to walk straight, forget anything except what it feels like to be filled by me. I'm going to make you gush all over my hand. Flood my face." I cover my mouth to muffle the cries that his words wring from me. I press my hand harder against my clit, increasing the pressure at the center of my thighs as I pump into my core, curling my fingers and hitting the spot I know will make me explode. "Then," Everett continues, voice strained as he grips his cock harder, "I'm going spread that pretty cunt and fuck you until you're screaming my name, until you squirt all over my cock again."

"Everett," I cry, though the sound comes out muffled behind my palm. I feel the building pressure break, feel the climax pool in my hand as I pull out of myself. My toes curl, my vision goes nearly black, but I keep my eyes on the mirror as I bring my fingers to my clit and flick rapidly, guiding myself through my orgasm. I watch my release spill out between my thighs and soak the floor beneath me, watch my flushed, glowing cheeks, and hooded, hazed eyes. I drop my hand to reveal parted lips, legs spread open, body limp. My entire head is foggy as I watch myself ride out my orgasm, slowly bucking against my hand.

It's erotic and raw, and in some far-off awareness, I know I should feel embarrassed by the sight, by Everett watching me unravel for him, but in this moment, I don't feel that. I only feel the pleasure, the sound of his breathing, and the words he whispers in my ear, though I'm past comprehending them.

"Fuck, Dal. Fuck. Fuck ."

My eyes dart sideways, catching the screen of my phone just in time to watch him pump his cock once more, his own climax ripping through him. I watch his stomach muscles tighten as his release shoots from his tip and drips down his base, gathering on his abs and in his hand. The sight of it nearly sends me into another spiral, wishing that it was covering my tongue. Across my chest. Dripping out of me.

He drops his phone, and I finally pull my hand from between my legs. We're both quiet for a moment as I stand and slip my t-shirt back over my head, stepping into my bathroom to clean myself up. I don't bother with my underwear when I return; I just grab my phone and climb between my sheets. A moment later, Everett's face appears back on my screen. I lay sideways, setting my phone on my pillow, and he does the same, almost as if we're laying in bed next to each other.

I wait for things to turn awkward and uncomfortable, but he only gives me that soft, easy smile that seems to make my bones melt. "Do you believe me now when I tell you how beautiful you are?"

I can't hide the tilt of my lips. "Maybe a little."

I'm not sure I'll ever be able to find my own orgasms beautiful. I don't think I'd ever describe myself that way, but that embarrassment I'm still waiting to envelope me never does. The shame I used to feel after sex when I'd come the way I did with Everett… It doesn't arise. I just feel…satisfied.

"You're so beautiful, Dahlia. So fucking pretty, sometimes I can't believe it."

"Everett," I whisper, caught off guard by a sudden yawn as my post-climax exhaustion settles over me. I realize it's nearly one in the morning, and he wasn't lying when he said orgasms help one fall asleep.

"Say thank you, Wildflower. Then you can go to sleep."

"Thank you." My eyes begin to droop, but through my blurred vision, I can see him smile.

"Go to sleep, Dal."

The sound of my name on his lips feels like a lullaby. I'm not ready to accept his absence yet. I want to keep feeling his presence. I don't want to be alone. "Can you stay?"

"Yeah, baby. I can stay."

His quiet breathing sends me into sleep.

When Lou wakes me in the morning, my phone is dead. I plug it in as I ready myself for work and Lou for school. When I leave, I notice text messages from Everett, sent just after four o'clock.

I think your phone died.

I just couldn't take my eyes off you.

See you soon, Wildflower.