Free Summer Sky by Lisa Swallow

Dylan Morgan.
    I poke my tongue out. "Don't presume I’m thinking anything good."
    "Sky, I can read your face, and your eyes."
    Ignoring him, I walk to the window and peer out. The rainy weather has taken hold, the bright world of yesterday muted into greys.
    "It wouldn't be a summer without this," he says from behind. "What did you used to do here on rainy days as a kid?"
    I turn back and shrug. "Stay home and read. Fight with my brother."
    "None of those sound fun to me."
    "TV?"
    Dylan's eyes flick between the TV and me. "Do you like snuggling?"
    Here we go again, Mr Random. "As in?"
    "Cuddling with someone, relaxing, maybe watching TV together."
    Like I did with Grant? Watching TV together with a Chinese takeaway was his idea of a hot date. His snuggling involved groping when he was drunk - or decided I was drunk enough. I scrunch up my nose but before I can respond, Dylan disappears, jumping upstairs two steps at a time. Seconds later he reappears with his duvet, the seashell covered pattern looking out of place in his inked arms.
    "Do you know how long it is since I've snuggled?" he asks.
    "Umm...?" Actually, I can imagine. "Not rock star behaviour, I guess."
    He narrows his eyes. "Reality stays at the door..."
    "Okay. No, I don't."
    Dylan resumes his seat on the sofa and picks up the TV controller. "Choose a DVD?"
    There's something about Dylan, which makes him hard to refuse. Apart from what my mum would call devilish good looks, he has an odd presence. The presence of someone used to people agreeing with, and never questioning, him.
    The DVD collection stacked in the TV cabinet is eclectic and I attempt to find one he’ll hate.
    "Twilight." I hold up the box and fix him with a 'don't disagree' stare.
    After an initial tug of the eyebrows, he shrugs. "Sure. I've never seen that one."
    "That's what I thought."
    "But I know..." He stops himself.
    "You know who?"
    "Do you have popcorn?"
    Again, the subject change. He'll give me whiplash. "No, why would I?"
    "But you have crisps? Lots." He grins teasingly and stands.
    I load up the DVD and settle on the sofa. Dylan returns with a huge plastic bowl of crisps and some cans of coke. Setting them on the table, he curls his long legs under him and pats the sofa. I get up from the floor and hesitate.
    "Live dangerously," he says and smiles.
    Snuggling under that duvet with him is dangerous - to my heart rate, my hormones and eventually my modesty.
    But I climb onto the sofa with Dylan anyway.
    Compared to the cool outside, Dylan’s hard, muscled body is warm. When I cuddled Grant, there was a lot of loose flesh; I don't think Dylan has an ounce of fleshiness on him.
    I extricate the controller from under the duvet and hit play. Dylan leans forward, drags the bowl of crisps onto the duvet between us and sighs. I smirk. He’s sitting through the whole thing, whether he likes it or not. This is pay back for my second dunking in as many days.
    Me, I’ve seen Twilight around twenty times. Don’t judge. There’s something about Edward - so what if he's pale, skinny and the antithesis of the man I'm currently lusting over? Maybe I like the unattainable. Every now and then, Dylan makes a soft scoffing noise in his throat but masks the sound with a mouthful of crisps.
    As the movie progresses, Dylan’s behaviour confuses. I thought ‘snuggling’ might be secret code for ‘I’m going to make out with you’, but looks like I was wrong. I have my body buried as far into him as I can without sitting astride him and begging him to touch me (which becomes more of a possibility as the minutes pass) but all he does is rest his head against mine and drive me mad with gentle touches on my arm. Under this duvet, I'm getting hot and bothered; I’ll be a gasping heap of hormones by the end of this.
    Halfway through the movie, Dylan shifts around to face me. "How am I doing?"
    "Doing?"
    "At snuggling."
    "I don’t think snuggling is an art form." Now he’s locked me in his sights again,