“You don’t have a weird hair color,” he says promptly, which makes me narrow my eyes at him.

  “So you agree that I am a weakling.”

  “I didn’t say that!” he says, panicked, doing a crunch to sit up, and my attention gets snagged by his six-pack, clearly visible through his shirt.

  Jesus, Vick, not again.

  I can’t help it if I’m hopelessly attracted to my boyfriend, I can’t help it!

  “It was implied,” I say, climbing into his lap and skittering my fingers along his ribs, making him laugh and squirm until I nearly get an elbow to the eyeball and all tickle games come to a halt.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Are you okay? Victoria?”

  “I still want you to take it back that you think I’m a weakling. I’m weak for now. There, that sounds so much better.”

  “I never said I thought you were weak. Half of any kind of training is mental anyway, and I think you’re incredibly determined.”

  I snort. “Incredibly determined, huh? Well, if you’re going to speak like that to me then I want a kiss, for revenge purposes only.”

  Michael frowns, still up on his elbows, the flat planes of his abs and chest more enticing than ever. But I’m not going to push, because I’m not an asshole like his ex.

  Snuggling and kissing is pretty much my favorite thing to do anyway.

  Besides eating and gaming and training (which is still a new development for me).

  “Not revenge,” I say, seeing that look on his face that makes me feel a little queasy. “Kisses for—” I huff through my nose, roll my eyes. “I just demand kisses, Michael. Are you going to give them to me or not?” I say around a puckered mouth, which is surprisingly difficult and not part of my plan at all.

  “Only if you tell me what it feels like, when you kiss me.”

  “Are you asking me to tell you about my—”

  “No, no, no. Shit. I didn’t mean that.” Michael is practically glowing with his blush, and he flops back down onto his back, practically spread eagled with me in his lap, looking up at the ceiling like he’s ready to give up his life if only to escape this moment of embarrassment.

  “You want to know what I feels like when I kiss you? How your lip feels?”

  Michael tenses underneath me, muscles going taut, and again, I have to will my attention back to the matter at hand.

  Reassure him now, and kisses later. Okay?

  “It feels like any other pair of lips I’ve kissed.”

  “Victoria…” He groans, blinking at me, eyes with a thousand questions in them.

  “Michael.” I cross my arms over my chest, looking down at him from my loftier height. “Are you calling me a liar?” I ask, peering down my nose at him.

  “Tell me the truth.” He tilts his head back, chin notching up in a silent challenge.

  I raise an eyebrow. “The truth is your upper lip where the scar is a bit shorter than the other side. The scar tissue doesn’t look like you have facial hair in that area. That’s it. There’s no difference to me when we do kiss. Which we are not doing, I might add.”

  Michael licks his lips, his tongue tracing over the groove where his lip is a little shorter, right where the scar is. I tilt my head at him, getting impatient.

  “Can I kiss you now?” I ask, waiting for him to give me the okay.

  Michael nods slowly, like he’s unsure, so I’m careful to move slowly, not wanting to spook him.

  I kiss him chastely, once, twice, three times in a row, until I’m moving and giving him loud pecks all over his cheeks and face, making him laugh.

  For good measure, I move back to his mouth, sighing when he kisses me more deeply, with more confidence, and I forget what it’s like to breathe, to need air, because all I want to keep doing is kissing Michael until we both lose our breath.

  I don’t even know how much time passes, with us kissing like that, missing out on several jump-scares if my vague hearing of crescendos of music coming from the TV are anything to go by.

  We keep kissing until my lips feel raw and stinging, and only then do we pull away from one another.

  Michael looks wrecked, and it would make me grin if my mouth weren’t so sensitive right now. Instead, I stroke the side of his face, being gentle as can be as we both pant and try to regulate our breathing, once and for all.

  I trace the shape of his mouth, and he lets me even move over his upper lip. I’d been giving particular attention to that area, not wanting it to feel neglected, not even a little bit.

  “I really, really like kissing you. Okay? Do you believe me now?”

  Something moves behind Michael’s eyes, but he gives me a nod anyway, and I press a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth. I lean back and push the hair back off his forehead, just touching him in this soft and safe way that I think we both need right now.

  So some asshole ex-girlfriend hurt him.

  What are you gonna do about it, Vick?

  I watch his eyes flutter closed, turning his face to press deeper into my touch, and my heart freezes in my chest.

  I’m going to be better, I’m going to do better.

  My name doesn’t mean victory for nothing.

  THIRTEEN

  December…

  I blink and it’s December, and everyone’s taking out their Christmas decorations and trees. The days are getting shorter and shorter, and the cheery bright lights aren’t soothing, but instead a visual reminder that Christmas is almost here.

  I’m already exhausted by running around and trying to get my Christmas shopping out of the way early this year, the first time I’ve actually been able to do it in a while.

  The malls aren’t packing us in like sardines, and people aren’t elbowing each other to get the last product in some sort of purchasing madness like some sort of goon on the ice in the middle of a hockey game. It’s still early December though, and the shopping desperation isn’t at an all-time high.

  My cousins are all easy to buy gifts for—everyone loves a gift card from Sephora for two hundred bucks, and I get Max a gift card from her favorite indie makeup brand that offers the service. I’ve got the gift cards stuffed inside the pocket of my coat, and I’m lugging around a bag full of a cute set of Christmas cards that involve the cutest reindeer I’ve ever seen.

  Despite having already gotten my parents a couple’s treatment thing at an exclusive spa in Laval for a weekend getaway, and my little sister a gift card to her favorite bookstore, I’m struggling trying to find something for Michael.

  We’ve only been dating for a total of eight weeks now, and while we haven’t discussed what we’re going to do for each other for Christmas—if we even are—I’ve been swept up by the consumerism wave and I want to buy more, even if I don’t really need to.

  I know he likes sweet-smelling things. I figured this outby the amount of time he put his face in the crook of my neck when I wore a vanilla-scented perfume that made me hungry all day but made Michael as complacent as a kitten. He did anything I wanted, whatever I asked for.

  I felt for the first time what it felt like to be truly powerful in a relationship, like I’ve gone and finally achieved my final form.

  But I don’t know if he’s a candle guy—it could be because maybe he hides his candles, or just never got into them, I don’t know.

  I’d like to buy him a punching bag as he’s expressed wanting to get into boxing before the end of the year (it was one of his resolutions from last year, and he actually tries to stick to them quite closely), but I don’t know where he would put it. His place is the same size as mine, just under seven hundred square feet. Every inch of space is carefully thought out, and while he doesn’t have a bunch of equipment like I do cluttering his living room, I don’t see him putting the punching bag up in his bedroom.

  I should just ask him instead of trying to rack my brain to figure out what he would like as a gift.

  I mean, a gift card would work but to where? Any of the brands he wears on a daily basis for his gym gear, or training shoes? What about the tanning booth as he prepares for his competition coming up much closer than mine?

  Just call him, it’ll be easier.

  I sit down in the middle of the mall at one of the benches they’ve strategically placed for people like me who just need a minute to have some time for themselves outside of the chaos of shopping for so many people.

  God, I’m tired.

  I haven’t been around this many human beings in what feels like forever—it’s exhausting, my ears bombarded by everyone’s noise.

  Why are people so loud? Why?

  I dial Michael’s phone number, pressing my ear buds into my ears without having to press my phone to my ear. Let’s just hope I remembered to charge them in the first place and there’s enough juice to hold a conversation.

  “Hello?” A female’s voice picks up Michael’s phone, and it throws me for a second, and I ignore that ugly feeling inside my stomach that sits there, heavy and dragging me down. Stupid knee-jerk response. Stupid.

  “Hi, can I speak to Michael, please?” I ask, throat bobbing.

  “Who is calling, please?”

  Well, she has impeccable phone manners. I usually just snap to whoever I’m talking to, but then again, I’ve got like five contacts in my phone, other than my manager, who knows to email me rather than phone me up.

  “It’s Vick—Victoria.”

  “One moment please,” she says, and then hollers a Michael! that I have to pull out one of my earbuds or risk my tympanic membrane being destroyed.

  I shouldn’t be acting the way I am. Jealous, me? I don’t get jealous. I just have questions. Questions about who is answering Michael’s phone. That’s it, that’s all.

  “Hello?” Michael’s voice comes in loud and clear, and he’s panting, like he was running to get to the phone. Which is a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he is panting in the first place.

  I don’t like this slithering feeling in my chest, slimy and wet and weighted—is this what they mean when it comes to jealousy, this ugly, heavy feeling? How do I get rid of it?

  “Uh, hi. It’s me. Vick.”

  “Victoria,” he says, his voice warm when he says my name. It eases that slithering tightness around my chest, that invisible boa constrictor loosening its deadly grip around my heart.

  It’s not like I don’t know that Michael’s a total babe and can literally get anyone he wants—he’s tall and strong and while that might not be up to someone’s aesthetics, he’s kind and sweet and conscientious and attentive and I think anyone can appreciate that, male, female, and everyone in between.

  So, it’s not new that I have this niggling worry twisting inside my belly, not fully blown nausea yet or anything like that, but just…a discomfort that I can’t seem to shake.

  Michael can have anyone he wants, anyone, least of all someone who doesn’t like to interact with people if I don’t have to, even if my resting bitch face mode is on.

  I’m a homebody (unless I’m strength training), and I prefer interacting with fictional characters rather than real people—fictional people have motivations and backstories, yeah, but at least they make sense.

  Real people? Not so much.

  I forget where I am and what I was doing, already drained from dealing with all of the noise and the people being too loud and peopley, and I glance around the crowded mall and try to focus back in on the conversation.

  “Uh, so I’m at the mall…” I say, and Michael makes an affirmative noise, encouraging me to continue. “And Christmas is around the corner, and I just wanted to get you a little something, but I’m not sure what.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to get me anything. That’s not necessary.”

  “Oh, okay. Okay, then. That’s why I called.”

  “Victoria, you sound…weird.”

  “Uh, well…” I clear my throat, ignoring the real reason why I’m feeling out of sorts.

  It’s not like I expected Michael to jump at the chance of taking me up on my offer to buy him something—he really has no idea how much money I make, and that’s not information I’d like to disclose anytime soon either—but why didn’t he jump at the chance for me to buy him something?

  “There’s a lot of people here,” I say, settling on that reason and that reason only.

  “Vick, why don’t you just leave?”

  “I don’t know, I was killing time, waiting for you to finish your shift, and I’ve been here for a couple of hours and I feel like I need a nap now, oh my god. This is so tiring. I should just buy everything online, I don’t know why I ventured out into humanity to buy anything.”

  Michael laughs on the other end of the line, warm and perfect, and I wish I was there with him to see him do it.

  He has a great laugh, always bringing up his hand to his mouth like he’s trying to keep it contained, but it’s usually so loud and boisterous that it makes everyone else join in—like the kind of feeling you get when you hear a laughing baby. There’s something wrong with you if you don’t join in.

  “I’m done for the day actually, and I came to visit my parents and my little cousin.”

  “Oh, shit. Oh, sorry, I’m interrupting—” I stammer, a light feeling in my chest. That’s a cousin, you idiot. A cousin!

  “You’re not, you’re not interrupting at all. I always love talking to you.”

  Oh, Jesus. Oh sweet, sweet broken Sky Castle, he said that word in regard to me and I swear my heart’s never going to be the same. Shit.

  “Uh…” How many times am I going to stammer? He makes me feel stupid when I’m around him, none of it his own intentional doing, but just by the way he looks, and the way he acts and the way he is.

  I’m in big, big trouble. Being-faced-with-an-entire-horde-of-enemies-type trouble with only one viable exit, and the only way is through.

  In real life though, I don’t have energy stored in my character or magical weapons to help me fight. I’m just Vick, not NIKTORIOUS. No one really gives a shit who I am out here.

  It’s enough to do my head in.

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice that it’s the first time you called me Vick.”

  Michael laughs again, surprised. “Did I? I’m so fond of your name, though.”

  “Yeah, well, you did it. Okay, I’m going to leave this fifth circle of hell, and get the hell out of here. You can pass by if you want and we can have dinner together, or if you have other plans let me know.”

  “I can do that. I can meet you in another hour or so?”

  “Yeah, sure. Any special requests for eats?”

  Michael gives me his standard answer of letting me pick the food, but that’s not going to fly. I’m already going through my mental data banks and thinking about all the food that Michael wants to eat, but what he should eat. There’s going to be a time, hopefully, hopefully, where I’m going to have to hide my sugar addiction and eat cookies in a closed room if I’m hanging out with him and he’s getting closer and closer to his competition.

  Who knew that dating someone was asking them what they want to eat seventy percent of the time?

  Who knew? Not me.

  I hike all my purchases, along with a random purchase of a gingerbread house. I’ve never made one by myself, it’s always been with Amber and Max. I wonder if Michael would be willing to make one with me.

  I jam out to throwbacks of the Backstreet Boys on the radio as I drive home, too lazy to connect my driving playlist to my car. I trudge all my stuff up to my place only to realize that I have to go out again and buy wrapping paper and bows, or just get real lazy and buy bags and tissue paper? More decisions to make and I’ve had it for today. Michael knocks on my door a whole forty-five minutes later after I’ve come back from the store with my reflective silver wrapping paper stacked against the wall and the bags pushed into the living room, the giant box of the gingerbread house-building kit on the kitchen counter, glaringly red and obvious.

  When he comes in, his eyes go directly to it, his smile bigger than a house, his eyes crinkling at the sides in a real smile that has my heart doing gymnastics in my chest. Wow.

  He points at it. “Is that for us?”

  I nod slowly as I lock the door behind him, whirling into the kitchen and standing there awkwardly. “Hey, I think your shoulders got bigger. How is that fair? It’s been like three weeks!” I stop myself from jabbing my finger at his shoulder caps, knowing I would cause injury to myself. It doesn’t help that the cozy sweater he’s wearing has my Snuggle Mode engaging even if I haven’t voluntarily flipped the switch.

  “I’ve got more testosterone than you. Sorry.” He manages to look apologetic for it, too, which is adorable.

  I shrug. “I want bigger shoulder caps, too. It’ll make me look like a superhero. Who doesn’t want to look like a superhero?” I put my fists at my hips, elbows out, striking a pose, which makes him smile wider.

  “Hey, I didn’t get a kiss.” I tap at my mouth, and Michael gets all bashful, as if we haven’t done this before a thousand times because I’ve become addicted to his kisses and kissing him, and I don’t want to stop.

  He huffs out a breath, as if steeling himself to kiss me, and it makes that slithery feeling twist around inside me until his lips finally brush mine, once, twice, and two more times before he pulls back. His golden-brown eyes are warm and hazy, his cheeks flushed as he stares down at me. I can smell his laundry detergent, and the smell of his coconut shampoo, his cologne that smells like sandalwood and lemon.

  Maybe there’s a Vick-nip out there and its name is Michael Nash.

  I sigh when he takes a step back from me, a small smile on his face when he lays his hands on my shoulders, hands moving down to rub my arms up and down. “How hungry are you?”

  I tilt my head. “On a scale of one to ten? I’m always at an eleven.” I smile. “Let’s order sushi.”

  There’s a lot of kissing that happens between me ordering the sushi and us getting the sushi, enough so that I need to drink a hundred liters of water and don’t end up eating all that much, even though Michael frowns at my lack of appetite.

  I wave off his concern. “I know I need to eat more, I just can’t do it right now. I’m full. And we got the fried ones, too, and it’s sitting in my stomach like lead. Trust me, I’m more upset about not being able to eat more than you are.”