If Only (GxG)

Chapter 52 Clingy, Chic, and Slightly Overcaffeinated

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Alison's POV

I've never seen anyone look so elegant while silently refusing to let me leave a room.

Blake stands at the foot of the bed like she's guarding the perimeter. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Her hair's pinned back in that loose, no-nonsense bun she wears when she's trying not to unravel. She's barefoot, but somehow still carries the air of someone who could acquire the entire postcode out of spite. The black button-up tucked into those perfectly tailored linen trousers is supposed to say relaxed, but every line of her body contradicts it.

She hasn't let me out of her sight all morning.

I tried brushing my teeth alone—she followed me into the bathroom and handed me my towel like I might disappear if she takes her eyes off me. I mentioned walking to the shop for oat milk, and she deadpan offered to pay someone to deliver it. She's been trailing behind me like a very tall, very beautiful panic attack.

We're in love.

But also, I am being lovingly stalked by my girlfriend.

"Blake," I say, gently exasperated. "I love you."

"I know," she replies instantly, her tone clipped—like she's stating a strategic advantage on a battlefield.

"But you're being clingy."

"I'm being cautious."

"You're hovering," I counter, stepping closer. "You're like a very pretty storm cloud with a PhD and control issues."

Her lips twitch. The tiniest flicker.

Progress.

She's holding on too tightly. I can see it in her posture, in the tension humming under her skin like an overloaded wire. She isn't angry—not at me. She's upset. Rattled. Gripping everything she can to stop the edges from fraying.

But to me, she's not a force of intimidation.

She's my girl. My brilliant, sharp-tongued, overprotective woman with her ridiculous trousers and her aching, generous heart.

So I place my hands gently on her waist and tip my chin up until our eyes meet.

"Come on," I say softly. "Let's go on a date. Just us. Somewhere public. Somewhere nice."

Her gaze narrows like she's scanning for threats in the word date.

"A date?"

"Yes, Blake. You do remember what those are, don't you?"

"I've heard of them," she says, dry as ash.

"Good." I grin. "I want coffee. Then I want to drag you through that gallery you love so I can pretend to understand 18th-century Italian etchings while secretly thinking about how good your butt looks in trousers."

There it is.

A low, reluctant laugh rises in her throat—soft and warm, curling like honey—and for a moment the lines around her eyes ease.

"I shouldn't be rewarding your awful jokes with laughter," she mutters.

"And yet you do," I say, stepping even closer. "Because you like me."

Blake exhales through her nose and finally uncrosses her arms. Her hands settle on my hips, fingers curling in like she's anchoring herself—like if she lets go, I might disappear.

Her eyes scan my face slowly, searching every inch of me. Not for danger.

For distance.

To make sure I haven't already started pulling away.