Page 65 of From Square One

He returns my smile, his own fragile. “Then let’s go brush our teeth. Just in case I want to kiss you.”

“But we’re just going to bed,” I say scoldingly as I follow him into the bathroom, bringing my toiletry bag with me. I smear my toothbrush with mint paste, wet it, and jam it into my mouth, glaring up at him. “Right?”

“Right, which is why you’re currently scrubbing every crevice in your mouth with extreme violence,” he says.

I scowl, spit the toothpaste out, then storm away, only 80 percent minty fresh.

I think he’ll kiss me anyway.

22

I showered before coming over, and apparently Aaron did shortly before cooking dinner, so we don’t need to wash before getting into bed. I change into a crewneck and stretchy pants, while Aaron flops on his back, removing nothing but his bandanna. “Too tired to change?” I ask, propping myself on the mattress’s edge beside him, then swirling my fingers through his soft black hair.

Aaron smirks and catches my wrist, then hoists me over him, until his lips are brushing mine. “I don’t change,” he says. “I just take my clothes off. But I was kind of hoping you’d do that.”

His proximity and words are a double whammy to my heart, which thrums faster. “Getting handsy requires stamina,” I say coolly. “Which you clearly don’t have right now. Go to sleep.”

His eyes brighten. “You’re saying we could get handsy if I had the stamina?”

“I’m saying you should sleep, brat.”

Aaron grins, though I can already see exhaustion overcoming him, glazing his eyes. “Sleep on me?” he whispers, pulling more firmly on my wrist, until I’m nearly splayed out over him.

“I won’t be too heavy?” I ask nervously.

He snickers in response. Sighing, I maneuver myself on top of him, trying to distribute my weight so I’m not crushing any part of him. I pull the blankets over us and nestle my head sideways under his chin. His arms slide around me, one fumbling under my shirt to trace my back, the other scratching through my hair. The sensation is relaxing, pleasant, but…

“I should be doing this for you,” I say amusedly, my eyes fluttering shut.

“Doing what?”

“Rubbing your back, combing your hair…I’m not the one needing comfort.”

“This is comforting,” he says gently, his fingertips toying with the nape of my neck. “Having your weight on me. Making you feel safe and relaxed makes me feel the same way.”

I’m quiet for a moment, digesting this. It seems wrong. I’ve probably told him that before. “You said it’s that way for other things, too,” I mumble.

“Yeah. Providing makes me feel good. The problem is that you don’t like to receive. Or you do, but you feel guilty about it. Like right now.”

I wince, but cover it by nuzzling deeper into his chest.

“You’ve always felt like you’re never enough,” Aaron says, fingers rolling over the bumps rising along my neck. “You don’t need to earn anything from me. I want you to accept it because I want to give it. Not because I need something in return. That was an issue between us for a while.”

I pop my brows. “How so?”

“You accused me of love bombing,” he admits, sounding sheepish. “You weren’t used to being put first, so you figured I had bad intentions. It was around the time I told you some criticisms I had about your family, and you thought I was trying to isolate you.”

I lift my head to look more properly at him, uncertainty gnawing at me. I can’t say I haven’t considered that. He tells me he loves me repeatedly, he bought me everything I wanted at the carnival, he’s interrupted my schedule to spend time with me, and he’s been trying to convince me to distance myself from my family. On paper, they’re red flags. And I’m the perfect prey for that behavior because I’m an awkward people pleaser with low self-esteem.

But Aaron has never made me feel like I owe him. He’s never tried to win an argument by telling me how much he’s done for me. His compliments are sometimes sweeping and overwhelming, but he’s gotten over a year to know me, and I don’t want to hold his affections against him just because I don’t remember how we got here. He texts me a lot, but he’s not accusatory if I forget to respond. He’s never tried rushing me into my feelings. I’m not nervous or scared around him.

“I don’t think you’re love bombing me,” I say out loud in case he needs to hear it. “I’m not sure why I felt that way. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Aaron reaches up, stroking my cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Your body’s comfort around me probably helps the current you feel this way. At the time, you still didn’t fully trust me, and you didn’t understand why I was so eager to be there for you. I couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t accept anything I offered. We were frustrated. It’s the closest we came to breaking up.”

I listen to this in fascination and bewilderment. “How did we fix it?” I ask.

“I started actually love bombing you so you could see the difference—”