In Hate With You [mlm]

the fourteenth date

Dante texts me two days later, telling me to bring blankets, a speaker and my paints to a campsite in the middle of a forest. And, as if camping in the middle of a forest isn't creepy enough, it's almost two hours' drive away from the city. 

Feeling completely unprepared, nervous and a little stressed from a heavy week at work, I pack a bag of blankets, a warm coat and a speaker, stuffing it into the back of my car.

The drive is long, but I distract myself with the radio, listening to Harry Styles, Guns 'n' Roses and everything in-between.

After a few miles of driving through forest, I see the Entrance sign to the campsite, engraved with the words, 'Setthorns Campsite'. Stood beside the wooden structure, is Dante, a grin curling across his lips.

"You made it!" He yells, and I laugh at his obvious excitement. I didn't think he'd act like this on a first date, but I don't mind at all. Frankly, it's adorable.

"You better not be bringing me here to kidnap and murder me," I tell him, mock-threateningly. He shakes his head with a chuckle.

"Of course not."

"That's what they all say." I shake my head disbelievingly.

With amusement still dancing in his eyes, he directs me into the car park, and I pull up next to his car.

"Have you already signed in?" I ask, stepping out of the car, glad to be back on my feet.

"Don't need to if you're not staying overnight; everything is ready. All I need is you." His words are sweet, and a blush colours my cheeks. I try to respond, but my mouth fails to speak English.

Instead, I open the boot, and hand him the bag of paints, taking the bag with blankets myself. He winces slightly at the weight of the bag, but refuses to let me carry it.

We walk into the main body of the campsite, and I allow my gaze to explore. Giant oak trees surround us, with only a few clearings where most of the tents are pitched. Picnic benches and bonfire pits mark the edges of each clearing, positioned beneath the tallest trees.

A small river runs through the centre of the campsite, splitting it into two. A miniature wooden bridge stretches over the largest part of the river, leading down into a field of bluebells.

Despite the large abundance of tents, I can't see many people, and the campsite is relatively quiet.

Dante leads me past the biggest groups of tents, over the bridge and through the bluebells until we reach one of the biggest Oaks I've seen.

A tepee stands beneath it, the inside covered in blankets and cushions, lit by fairy lights that hang from the biggest poles. The bonfire pit in front of it is already stacked with wood, and picnic blankets are set out a safe distance from the fire.

I drop my bags and wrap my arms around Dante, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," I murmur. "I'm taking you out next time, though."

"You'll have to do a fair amount to best this," he snickers, and I elbow him playfully.

I settle down onto a blanket, unwilling to unpack straight away.

"Ady said you were good at painting," he says, a few moments later. "So I thought we could begin with you teaching me how to paint."

"Ah, a hopeless task," I sigh, looking to the sky wistfully.

He nudges me roughly, and I turn to him with a teasing glint lighting up my eyes.

Lazily, I drag myself over to the bag of paints, and begin extracting things from the mess. I line up the colours on the grass, and tug out the mini-easels and canvases I brought.

Dante eyes the stuff warily, as I begin to construct the easels. For folding up so small, these easels can become quite big and I can see his eyes widening as I slot the pieces together.

I sit the canvases on each easel, pick out a few of the cheaper paintbrushes and turn to him with a smile.

"What do you want to paint?" I ask, and his mouth opens but no words escape.

After a few moments, he says, "You decide."

I roll my eyes at his cop out, but begin sketching something lightly in brown paint on my canvas. The figure of a man takes shape; dancing through rows of bluebells, his long hair flowing down his back.

He scowls from behind me, "I am not going to be dancing through bluebells anytime soon, if that's what you want." I let out a loud burst of laughter.

"I'm not expecting you too. I've made this man up," I tell him, but even as I say it, I look at my painting and see the soft curve of his lips, almond shape of his eyes and the flow of his hair.

"Sure, you have," he scoffs.

I ignore him as I finish sketching the loose movement in the man's arms, before turning to him.

"Can you copy this, or do you want me to do the outline?" I ask him, fairly confident of what his answer will be.

He surprises me. "I'll give it a go," he decides, a smirk playing on his lips. "I want to try and paint you."

"Be my guest," I say, handing him the paintbrush.

He examines me, and I can feel my skin warming at the touch of his gaze. And then his brush is sweeping in gentle strokes, outlining the edge of my body - or what is supposed to be my body.

I don't laugh, but he can sense the amusement in my expression, and he starts to defend himself.

"It's not that bad, alright, and not all of us can be professional artists like you," he whines, stepping back to watch his progress.

"It isn't that bad," I acknowledge, because it isn't awful. "But my leg definitely isn't that shape."

He glares at me, before sneakily trying to correct his mistake. Happiness sweeps through me, lighting my skin on fire.

Once he is almost satisfied with his outline, and is beginning to fill in the background, I pick my paintbrush up and lose myself in my work.

The bluebells in the background are the hardest part to paint, and very quickly I find myself frustrated at the quantity of colours shifting and changing on each flower. I change tact, colouring the detail on the man's face, enjoying the green and gold light playing across his skin.

Whenever I look up, Dante is buried in his own painting, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth.

After almost an hour of layering colours, I step back. Almost finished. Now to do the-

Something cold sprays across my face. My eyes dart up, to see Dante smirking at me, a bottle of paint in his hand.

I growl, grabbing the water I've been dipping my brush into. Alarm flickers through his expression, and he dodges away from me.

I dart after him, dropping my paintbrush so I can grab the corner of his shirt. He squeals as I throw the water, and it dribbles down his face.

"I'm going to get you back for that," he threatens me, but his eyes are light, gentle.

"You started it," I fire back, and glee dances on his face.

"You weren't paying attention to me." My mouth drops open, and he takes the opportunity to squirt more paint at me.

He delights in my shock as I continue to stand there, unable to fight back. Soon, I am splattered with purple, blue and various other colours.

"I was painting you!" I yell, finally finding my words. "Of course, I was bloody paying attention to you."

"I thought you said you weren't painting me?" He feigns confusion, and I snarl.

"Oh, you're so in for it," I promise him, grabbing the paint pot nearest me and upending it over his head.

Delight sparks in my heart as he flinches at the cold feeling, but I regret my actions when a different colour is poured over my own head.

We mess around for a while, until we're entirely covered in paint. Our shirts will stain, and my trousers are a lost cause - I fell into a muddy patch of grass near the river when he grabbed the biggest paint pot.

But now, we've run out of paint.

I glance at the crime scene around us, laughter bubbling in my throat. It's not only us covered in paint. My gaze meets his, and then I'm on the floor, leaning slightly on him as he shakes with laughter.

"We need showers," he comments, after we've sobered up enough. I nod.

"Showers then dinner?" I propose, and he murmurs an agreement.

I wipe my hands off on my already-disgusting shirt, and try to pick up my clean clothes with as little contact as possible.

He snickers as he watches me, and I glare at him.

"You've got to do this too," I mutter, and he shrugs defensively.

"I'm sure I'll do a better job-" I hit him on the shoulder. "Hey!"

"Oops. My hand slipped." I copy his shrug with a polite smile.

He rolls his eyes. "Ass."

As an apology, I press a kiss to his lips, but he pushes me away. I whine under my breath, and reluctantly, he wraps his arms around me and kisses me properly.

"You're still an ass," he insists. Yeah, sure.

***
By the time I'm finished showering, Dante already has a fire lit in the bonfire pit at the front of our tepee. Even though he's sat beside a fire, he has a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and another one cloaking his legs.

He smiles at me as I approach, huddled in his clothes - because he brought spares and I didn't think I'd need to - with my wet clothes hanging off my arm.

"I'm cold," I shiver, sitting down and cuddling into his side.

He chuckles lowly, wrapping his blanket around me, too. Warmth spreads through me, curling beneath my skin. Peeking my head out from the blanket, I tilt my head up to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you for doing this, Dante," I tell him. His skin taints red.

"Yeah, of course," he waves it off.

"No, thank you," I repeat. This time, he doesn't take it back, and I smile at my success. "What's for dinner?"

He pauses, turning to look at me. His dark eyes are lit up with streaks of amber from the firelight, glowing as they meet mine.

"Nachos first, then quesadillas-" I groan aloud at the thought of those wonders filled with melted cheese. He chuckles at my reaction, "And cinnamon swirls for pudding."

"Why didn't I date a baker earlier?" I wonder, and he swats playfully at me.

"Because you were waiting for me," he smirks, all smooth and sweet.

I chuckle at his confidence, and snuggle deeper into his warmth. Without jostling me, he picks out a rack and places it over the fire, before arranging the nachos, cheese, and tomatoes into a deep pan.

The smell of the cheese as it begins to melt sneaks into my nose, and my stomach growls.

"You hungry?" He snickers, offering me one of the crisps from the bag. I send him a cheeky smile, munching happily.

We listen to the fire crack and pop, enjoying the light of the sparks as they fizzle out on the rocks.

"Do you want me to put some music on?" I ask, making a move to get up.

"Good idea," he agrees. "Can you put the lights on and grab my coat from inside the tent, too?"

I nod, grudgingly stepping out of his warmth and into the cool air of the evening. His coat is beside mine, piled in one corner of the tent. Thankful for the extra layers, I slip my coat over my shoulders.

The fairy lights brighten the inside of the tent, and my breath catches at the blankets and pillows laid out over two airbeds in the centre of the tent. I know we aren't sleeping here, but I wish we were.

With a satisfied sigh, I slide back into his warmth, offering him the coat. I slide my speaker out of my pocket and turn to my phone so I can open Spotify.

"What do you want to listen to?" I ask, absentmindedly flicking through my playlists.