Emmett
I don’t know ifI get what he’s saying.
Me?
What’s there to know about the little queer boy I used to be who failed at life the moment I took my first breath? Does he want to know about the way I hide the defeat I have etched into my skin? The way that I have a brain inside my head that misfires when I’m around others? That I don’t know if I’ll evernotstartle when someone gets too close?
There’s nothing more to know about me. Nothing worth more than what Tristen already does.
For fuck’s sake, he found me in the hospital. Sick and broken.
Saw me on the bathroom floor just yesterday.
Still sick and broken.
“There’s nothing left to know,” I murmur to my covered fists, and some kind of wounded sound comes from Tristen.
“Sure, there is,” he whispers, his attempt at mirth missed. “Just … let me try? Please, bubbles?”
My stomach twists at the heaviness his tone has taken on, and I dig my nails into the meaty part of my palms. It flexes the skin on my wrist and makes it burn.
There’s rustling and then Tristen is in front of me, his shorts tented as he dips to his knees. He rests his arms on either side of my thighs, not touching, but close enough that I feel him there. Boxing me in.
I want to hate it. I really do.
“Please.”
I swallow hard.
“I’ll beg all night if you make me.”
I don’t know what to do or say. His attention feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
Though, that doesn’t make sense either.
I don’t want it. Idon’t.
But he’s on his knees and whispering his pleas that are making my insides too unsteady.
It’s always been me on my knees.
“Tristen,” I choke out and look at him through my hair. “What … what is it you want to know?”
He looks utterly stunned for a brief flash of time before his face breaks open in a smile that stretches his lips and bunches up his cheeks.
This time, it’s me that’s struck frozen in surprise at the sight of that crooked tooth that’s just so …
Pretty.
“I need a map.”
I blink. “A what?”
“Map,” he repeats and pokes his tongue out to wet his lips. My eyes follow the movement without my consent, and it does something inside my stomach. “I want you to show me where I can touch you. Where I need to ask first. And if it ever changes, I want you to tell me that, too.”
That jostles me from watching his mouth form words. “What?”
“Tell me where it’s okay to touch and where it’s not.”
