His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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........................................
NOAH
My '85 Ford Bronco continues to make the 30-minute drive from Goldwen to Thamesbridge each weekend. And thank god, because as soon as the clutch goes, Fox's going to offer to fix it with a flick of a wrist and a few grand, and I'm going to hate that. For now, it's fine.
I pull up to the modest two-story house nestled in the heart of the well-kept neighbourhood and shift into park at the edge of the lawn.
The leaves have begun their annual transformation, painting the neighbourhood in hues of fiery reds, vibrant oranges, and golden yellows. October is in full bloom. Or decay.
With my bags in hand, I kick the driver's door shut and head up the lawn, finally not caring when my hoodie falls off because this is home.
I pass my mother's Honda Accord parked on the gravel. The back tires need air. She never remembers to check the psi.
I don't knock at the front door—I don't need to. The moment I pass the threshold, I exhale.
My other brother Azi has claimed the living room floor by the fireplace as a construction site, Lego scattered around. Last weekend I stepped on a piece and couldn't speak for ten minutes.
Az is trying to show Mabel his Lego, but she's more interested in colouring the walls with her washable markers.
I take it all in for one more second, then drop my bags by the shoe rack and run two hands through my hair, taking in the mess.
Az's buzzed head snaps up and his gaped-tooth smile broadens as he abandons his Legos, launching himself across the room at my legs. He's a bulky little force that nearly sends me stumbling.
Mabel's on me next, scaling my back to drape herself around my neck. I start choking, reaching back to hike her up higher so she can at least wrap her little legs around me. She smells conspicuously like chocolate.
"Intruder!" she shrieks in my ear, jabbing my neck. "Die! Die die die!"
"Mabel," I wheeze. Her short, coiled hair tickles my neck. "Mabel, Jesus Christ."
"Maman!" she screams. "Noah said bad words!"
Dayo's tucked away in his usual corner, Walkman headphones sealing him away from, a thick book in his hands. The Count of Monte Cristo—again. His dark eyes scan the pages with an intensity that makes him older than fifteen. Seeing him is seeing a younger, lankier, sadder version of me.
Day doesn't look up from his book, but I catch the slightest twitch of his lips. He's not as removed as he was last weekend. This eases something in my chest.
"Noah I have to show you my castle!" Az looks up at me, tugging my pants. "Come on!"
A silhouette emerges from the kitchen—our matriarch, Principal Jacqueline Dupont-Bello.
