He even relented and let me buy some bras.
As much as the saying, “home is where the heart is,” is true, you still have to make the house—or caravan—feel like a home.
For the first time in my life, I feel content.
The door squeals as he steps inside. He woke up earlier to start driving and let me stay behind to sleep. Well, it’s not like I even heard him get up. We started moving, and I connected the dots myself.
A couple of doors and drawers open and close while I feign sleep. The bed dips under his weight as he crawls closer, tucking me into his arms. “Morning, beautiful.”
“Morning,” I whisper, smiling against his skin.
I could get used to waking up with him around. Though I’d prefer if he’s the first thing I see when I wake up. Or, better yet, more nights with broken sleep because Mickey couldn’t wait to sink inside me.
“Did you think you could pretend to be asleep?” he muses.
Lifting a shoulder, I peer up at him through my lashes. “I would never.”
I yelp when he pinches my butt, bursting into a fit of giggles as his fingers dig into my sides. A bang hits the side of the caravan, making me jolt upright. Suddenly, I can hear sounds. People. Laughter and chatter filter through our home, stiffening my joints.
Mickey pulls me back to him, looking the most at ease I’ve ever seen him. His gray eyes gleam bright silver, and the curl of his lips holds nothing but joy.
I move to pull back the curtain, but he snatches my hand away, rolling on top of me to hold me hostage. “No.”
“Mickey!” I laugh, moving side to side. What is he up to this time?
Heat scorches my body when his hard length rolls against the space between my legs. The single move has both of us groaning as he winds his fingers into my hair in a claiming grip. “If you keep moving, we’re never getting out of here, and you’ll never find out where we are. Nod if you understand.”
I narrow my eyes. “I could also just say yes.”
“Brat,” he mutters, kissing me for one heated second and consciously putting space between our hips. “I pulled out clothes for you. They’re on the bench.”
My brows hike up my forehead. “You’re dressing me again?”
His mischievous grin morphs into a devilish smirk. “You look good in my clothes.” He winks. “But you look better without them.”
I’m pretty sure I saw the front of my brain with my eyeroll. “That’s the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He scoffs. “Shut up. You’re, like, twelve.”
I bite the inside of my lip. “Twelve and three-quarters, actually.”
Mickey snorts before helping me to my feet. I use my inhaler, and then we continue with the mindless, nonsensical back-and-forth while he dresses me, helping me step into jeans, pulling on my Mickey Mouse shirt for me, and lacing my sneakers. In the reflection of the mirror, I catch the deeply pinched brows and his murderous eyes as he braids my hair. A bomb could go off outside, and I don’t think he’d notice.
He fusses with the ribbons and symmetry for a couple more seconds before nodding to himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s giving himself a mental pat on the back.
Suited up and ready for my next surprise, Mickey graces me with my unobstructed sight this time, fueling the excited thrum coursing through my veins.
The humidity sticks to my skin as we step into a big parking lot that tickles a distant memory. Families file out of their cars, giggling and donning backpacks, threading between cars, heading in the same direction.
Rounding the caravan, I freeze in my step.
Disneyland.
Mickey is taking me to Disneyland just like Mamá did on my birthday. There’s nothing I can do to stop the heat pricking my eyes and trailing down my cheek. I only have a few memories from when I was younger, like watching Mamá cry when she hugged Mickey and Minnie Mouse.
I pull him into a bone-crushing hug before he can move. Everything he’s done, he’s done for me. How was I ever so blind to see that?
Peppering kisses all over his face, I chant, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”
He laughs, beaming down at me. “You can make it up to me later.”
Gladly.
A group of teenagers runs past us, darting for the entrance. My muscles itch to do the same, and I decide not to fight it. How much of my childhood was lost hiding away in the bedroom, crying over parents I’ll never have, or taking care of the other kids in the house while I was the one needing care? My inner child deserves to live.