That twinge of hurt pulses again, but again, I push it away. “Still, I’m sorry you had to deal with this on your own for the last two weeks. Do you want to talk about it now? Or do you want to sleep and talk about it in the morning?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes controlled, careful breaths in and out until he’s no longer shaking. Then he silently climbs on top of me, back into that position he was in a few minutes ago. He reaches behind him and pulls up the comforter, and he settles his head on my chest.
After a few moments of quiet while I rub his back softly, he shifts a little and sniffles. Then, his voice unsteady and tight, he says, “Can we talk in the morning? I reallyamexhausted.”
“Yeah, of course.”
His breath shudders, and he mumbles a shaky “thank you” against my chest before he starts crying softly again.
Noalarmgoesoff,but I’m awake before the sun’s up the next morning. Nico’s deep in sleep now, though that wasn’t the casemuch of the night. He moved around a lot, woke up out of unsettling dreams several times, and though he always came back to my arms when he realized where he was and who I was and what was happening, he did push away from me, startled, more than once when he woke.
I don’t even want to guess what his dreams were about.
I continue holding him, his back flush against my front, until light streams in around the edges of the curtains on the window. Then I slowly slip my arm out from under him, turn over to grab my phone from the nightstand, and pad quietly across the room to the bathroom. It’s still only a little after six thirty, and honestly, I hope he keeps sleeping for a while.
I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and shave, and when I sneak back out to find some clean clothes, he’s still sleeping, still in the same position he was when I left, which makes me happy. After dressing in a pair of gray joggers and an old sweatshirt, I try to keep myself busy. I study for a bit, finish reading the article we’ll be discussing today in journal club, and check my school emails. Then, as quietly as I can, I start breakfast.
Pancakes are still his favorite. Pancakes with a ton of syrup. And they’re easy to make. So that’s what I do.
He finally wakes up with a groan about ten minutes later when I set our plates on the kitchen table. His eyes are puffy and red, probably from crying last night, and seeing that as he rolls over and looks up at me makes my stomach sink.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying for a smile. “I made breakfast.”
He manages a smile back as he props himself up on one elbow, his gaze shifting to the plates on the table. “Smells amazing.”
“Itisamazing. Only the best for my man.”
His smile turns crooked, which looks adorable, and he rolls his eyes, which also looks adorable. With a yawn, he sits and glances at his phone. “Eight fifteen?” His smile fades. “You should havewoken me up.”
“You needed to sleep,” I argue, and although his frown deepens, he doesn’t argue back. Instead, he pushes himself off the bed and heads over to the dresser to find some clothes. A minute later, he scoots his chair as close to mine as he can at the table and then leans over and rests his head on my shoulder.
“I hope I didn’t keep you up last night. Sleeping sucked. Fucking nightmares all night long,” he mumbles. Then he swallows hard and adds quietly, “Most of them were about Patrick. It hasn’t been that bad in a really long time.”
I slip my arm around his shoulder and press a kiss to his temple. “I figured.”
He stiffens a little but doesn’t say anything more. I lean forward slightly and slide the syrup across the table in his direction.
“Eat.”
He laughs weakly. “Yessir.”
“Damn right.” I grin at him, and he just shakes his head, then straightens up and reaches for the syrup.
After he’s thoroughly drenched his pancakes, I drizzle some syrup over mine as well, and we both start eating. He sets his fork down after just a few bites, however, and he leans against me again.
“What time do you have to leave?” he asks quietly, picking at a small scratch on the edge of the table.
“Nine. So, about a half hour.”
He nods and pulls his hand away from the table. When he speaks, his voice is more steady than I expected. “I’ve been going back and forth about whether I want to call her back. What do you think I should do?”
“Me? What do I think?”
“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head to look up at me. “Who else would I ask? You know the situation and her and what happened. And you have a more, um, objective view than I might.”
“But it’s not up to me.”
He laughs humorlessly and sits up. “I know that. I just want to know what you think so I can decide what to do.”
