We were lying in my bed, my head nuzzled into the crook of his arm that was holding me tight. It was the darkness of the room that gave me the courage to even ask in the first place. Not being able to see Oakley’s intense eyes, especially when I looked a hot mess, was definitely a plus.

Oakley shifted onto his side. He turned to look at me as he adjusted his arm so that he could rest his head on it. I closed my eyes and breathed in slowly as I waited for him to answer. Now that everybody knew just how close we had gotten, I felt like I could finally admit to myself how much I wanted this. Wanted him.

“I like you a lot, Amanda.” He paused, and I waited for the but that always seemed to follow that statement. “I know I said that I’m not a relationship guy and I don’t have girlfriends. But...”

Ah. There was the but. I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, but this seemed like it was going in a good direction. A good but. Like a superhero’s ass in spandex kind of but. I gave in to the flood of excitement, and my whole body started to tingle.

“I can’t stop thinking about you. When I’m not with you, I want to be. I feel like I can talk to you about anything, and I’ve never felt this comfortable with anyone. Plus, you’re hot as hell and fuck like a goddess. I can’t stand the thought of you being with anybody else. I want you to be mine.”

Well, put me in spandex and let’s save the world.

“That was quite the romantic speech,” I replied. “I’m just not sure if I’m sold yet. I need some convincing.” I wiggled. I knew he was packing some impressive morning wood under these sheets, and I wasn’t against telling Oakley junior gooooood morning.

Oakley chuckled and grabbed my wrist. “You’re mine,” he growled playfully. “But let’s not do any labels.”

Ah, and in the words of Tag Team, Whoomp, there it is.

Red flag. Bright red fuckboy flag of surrendering shame.

“No labels, huh?” I asked, scooting away. His grip on my wrist tightened.

“This is new. I finally convinced you to go on a date with me. And yeah, I’d like to pretty much stab anyone in the eye that looks at you for too long, and the idea of anyone touching you sends me into a fucking rage.”

“But no labels,” I repeated dryly, distancing myself even more. No labels was the hallmark of man whores. I’d had my fair share of commitment phobes, and I knew that was code for, if I don’t call you my girlfriend, there’s no accountability if I find something better.