Before I can answer him, he kisses the far edge of my brow where I have an old scar. He kisses that place a lot, though I’m not sure he knows I’ve noticed.
“I remember when you got that,” he says, touching it with the tip of his thumb.
“You do?”
His lip curls wryly. “Pen, come on. I was there.”
This isn’t the conversation I want to have, laid out half-naked on top of him. My emotions feel too... thin. Without breaking contact, I slide to the side and tug him to face me. He goes easily, tucking a hand under the pillow while his free arm drapes over my waist. It hits me that he’s giving me an out on the question of keeping me. His quiet care never fails to undo me.
My voice is thick when I speak. “It was so long ago, I didn’t think you’d remember.”
August searches my face for a moment, then traces the scar with a delicate touch. “I was ten. You were nine. All of us kids were outside playing around my backyard.”
“You, Jan, and May were climbing trees,” I fill in.
“And you, June, and March were hitting baseballs.” His attention flits to my scar. “March threw you a fastball, the dumbass.”
“I didn’t even see it coming.” A small laugh escapes. “Just lights exploding in front of my eyes.”
“Little twerp could have killed you.” August sounds as mad today as he was then.
“He was nine. What did he know?”
He makes a noise of dissent but then strokes my hair. “God, there was so much blood. And you were sobbing. It terrified me.”
That makes me smile. “You didn’t show it. You ran over, tore off your shirt, and bunched it against the wound.”
“Yeah, well, we were accident prone, so we all knew how to deal with those things.”
I shake my head. “Only the rest of them, except for you and Jan, just stared in horror.” As soon as he’d seen August taking care of me, Jan had run off to get our parents.
There are memories of my childhood that have already begun to fade away. But not this one. August had sat behind me, his already long legs wrapped around mine, his arm tight over my shoulder as he held the shirt against my head and told me I’d be okay, that my mom would be there soon.
It was the most he’d ever paid attention to me. Even then, I’d noted the difference. And, despite my pain, I’d felt safe with him.
“I knew it would be okay,” I tell him now. “Because you said so. And you never lied.”
Something in his eyes dim, and his hand drifts down to my waist. Long fingers grip my waist as he searches my face, almost as if he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. Then his lips tilt in a half smile. “I wasn’t totally correct. You had to get your forehead taped back together.”
“Details.” I wave it away with an idle hand, and grin. “You made me feel safe and didn’t yell at me for doing something stupid like my dad did later.”
He scowls. “Well, he’s an asshole.”
“True.” I lean in and kiss the tip of his nose. “August Luck, however, was my hero.”
August’s eyes narrow. “So long as you don’t call me sweet.”
“Well, it was really—”
“Pen . . .”
“Fine, you were a total badass. Satisfied?”
“Were?”
A giggle, easy and languid, leaves me. “Always. You slay. In all things.”
“Better.” But he grins and kisses me. It deepens, goes slower, a bit greedy.
