Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 390(@250wpm)___ 325(@300wpm)
I remember your hair smelling like oranges and my brain forgetting English when you laughed. Also I remember you stealing the setlist. It’s still taped under your bed, right?
Juno: Maybe it is, maybe you’ll never find out because I’ve changed the locks.
The warmth in my chest spills lower, heavier. I should keep this light. I should ask about breakfast plans and dodge the undertow. But her next message undercuts my caution.
Juno: Arrow?
Yeah.
Juno: The anchor thing… you still do it. Even when I don’t want to admit it.
Juno: Tonight at the loft when I asked you to kiss me like you might not get to tomorrow… the way you stopped when I said stop? That was… good.
Juno: I’m still mad. But. That was really good.
I sit up, elbows on knees, head in my hand. Gratitude spikes behind my eyes in a way that would embarrass Gage mercilessly.
Thank you for telling me. I’ll keep earning it.
Juno: It’s not a punch card.
Then no more metaphors. Just… I hear you.
A beat. Then:
Juno: What would you do if I were there right now?
The question lands like someone pulled the tablecloth and the plates stayed put. I swallow.
Context?
Juno: Couch. Low lamp. Hold The Peppers track 7 at an acceptable whisper. Me in your hoodie, which I stole, don’t fight me on this.
Juno: You’re allowed one paragraph. Be honest. Nothing you wouldn’t say in daylight.
I let my head fall back against the couch, my body hardening at the thought of her here. I stare at the ceiling crack that looks like a map of a country I’ll never visit, and let the truth line up.
I’d sit close but not on you. I’d put your feet in my lap because you always pretend you hate that and then fall asleep. I’d ask if I could touch you. Then I’d learn the night’s map by touch—the line from your ear to your jaw, the place your pulse jumps when you’re trying to hide that you’re flustered.
I’d kiss you slow enough to make you roll your eyes at me and then faster when you tug my shirt and I remember we’re allowed to want the same thing.
A long pause. Then:
Juno: There are… moments when I want to stop being mad just to find out if your mouth is as good as your words.
Juno: Don’t let that go to your head.
Too late. It’s a balloon now. Fully inflated.
Juno: Ugh.
Juno: What would you not do?
Push. Assume. Touch without asking. Turn my phone over so you can’t see it.
I would not mistake being needed for being owed.
Her reply is so fast I can see her thumbs in it.
Juno: Good answer. Now, it’s your turn. Ask me one honest thing you’ve wanted all day and couldn’t.
There are a hundred. The stupid one wins.
What did you color after you got home the day you shut the Ring off?
Juno: Mandala page forty-three. The one about “balance.” I shaded in purple until my hand cramped.
Juno: It helped, a little. Then it didn’t. Then you texted and it did again. That’s annoying, by the way.
I’m honored to be your annoying.
I’m grinning when the next message hits and it short-circuits me from sternum to spine.
Juno: Arrow, I want to be kissed against the wall next time. Not because I’m forgiving you. Because I want to feel that… edge.
I have to stand, because sitting suddenly feels like a hazard. I pace to the window and stare out at the smear of city lights, composing a reply that doesn’t overpromise or underplay.
Copy. Wall-kissing requested. Boundaries file saved to desktop and tattooed on my bones.
Also, I’m going to think about you in my hoodie swallowing you whole until I forget how to form words.
She sends three eye-roll emojis, then:
Juno: What about tomorrow morning? Bagels and silence? Or bagels and a plan?
Both. I’ll be on your stoop at 8 with sesame, cinnamon-raisin, cream cheese that is definitely too fancy, and a draft op order called Operation Hold The Peppers.
Juno: That name is illegal.
Report me to the band.
Juno: I’d never betray Hold The Peppers.
Their lawyers are peppers. Peppercorn suits.
Juno: Stop. I’m smiling and I hate you for it.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass and let myself breathe. My hands still shake with the memory of the loft, and now they shake with the phantom of a wall and her mouth. I want. God, I want. But want is not a plan. I step back from the window and let the room resolve again into the couch.
Juno: Okay, I’m going to take a shower and pretend the steam is washing off other people’s fingerprints.
Juno: Goodnight, Arrow.
My chest pulls tight again, but in the good way.
Goodnight, Juno. Dream about something where I’m in it.
Three dots. Then:
Juno: That’s all of them.
I put the phone face-down on the coffee table and sit there for a minute, palms buzzing, heart stamping out a ridiculous rhythm. The hallway light clicks on, and Gage pads out in socks, carrying a drive.