I Hate You Too

Ch. 22: Dallas

"Good morning, sunshine."

I yawn as my eyelids flutter open, faintly aware of a familiar voice breaking my sleep. Blinking to adjust to the light streaming through the window, my gaze settles on Amara.

Waking up to find her right next to me leaves me shaken.

Amara smirks, as if reading my mind. I sit up as I study her appearance. I've never seen her dark hair so disheveled, sticking up in odd places. Her face is puffy from sleep, devoid of makeup. Even her matching pajama seat is wrinkled.

How is she still so beautiful, even first thing in the morning?

My gaze drifts to her lips, where my stare lingers as memories of the previous night rush to my mind. I had kissed her last night, outside on the patio. I'd kissed her because I wanted to, and I didn't want to overthink it.

We haven't exactly addressed the situation after, when we ambled silently up to her room and Amara immediately tucked into her side of the bed. But I'd be lying if I said I couldn't imagine wanting to do it again. Which only leaves my brain foggier.

"You hog the covers when you sleep," Amara mumbles, interrupting my train of thought. "I was freezing all night."

"Well, you hog the bed," I bite back, running a hand through my hair and stretching once more. "I hardly had any room. I'm surprised I didn't wake up on the floor."

"I debated kicking you, but decided against it," Amara teases. When she smiles, there's an ease to the gesture I've never noticed before.

It's as if, for once, Amara doesn't have a wall built between us.

My gaze roams the room as Amara rises from the bed, padding over to her closet. As my stare lands on her nightstand, I eye a journal curiously. A bookmark dangles over the side of the table, marking a page in the middle.

Could that be her top secret poetry book?

Amara glances over her shoulder, following my stare. My cheeks flush as realization settles into her features.

Expecting Amara to snap at me, I'm surprised when she instead exhales a sigh.

"It took me forever to fall asleep," she admits. "I'm not used to sharing a bed with someone, I guess."

Taking advantage of the lack of venom in her tone, I ask, "Were you writing?"

Amara purses her lips. Her eyes narrow, as if the question gets under her skin. But then, she nods, a bit of tension fading from her expression.

"Yeah," she confesses. "If I don't write before bed, my thoughts keep me up all night."

I push the comforter to the side, hesitant to leave the bed. Once we leave this room—a space that has been like a haven from our bickering—will the bubble pop? Once we return to real life, will this easiness forming between us break?

Why does the thought of returning to reality make my stomach churn?

I cautiously ask, "What were you thinking about?"

I don't expect an answer. Amara has made it very clear that her writing is personal, something she doesn't share with anyone. Something she kept even from Jayden.

Knowing this only makes it even more shocking when Amara crosses the room, grabbing her journal and settling back in the bed at my side. She opens the bookmarked page, seemingly holding her breath as she extends the journal to me without a word.

I eye her blankly, gaping like a fish. My surprise must have Amara rethinking her decision, as she crosses her arms over her chest tightly.

"If you tell anyone about this, I swear I'll kill you, Cooper."