Lily sits beside me, her first aid kit already on the coffee table, and disinfects her hands with gel from a small bottle.
“Arm,” she orders, professional mode engaged.
I comply, watching her. Not in a creepy, leering way—at least, I hope not. But it’s impossible not to take in the fine bones of her wrist, how her hair falls across her cheek as she focuses. The smell of her shampoo stronger than it was in the car this morning. And then she touches me.
The proximity is heady enough to make me lightheaded.
“It’s healing well,” she comments, examining the stitches. “No signs of infection.”
“Thanks to my excellent nurse.” My voice comes out raspy.
She looks up, catching my gaze. An unspoken emotion dances behind her eyes, but before I can name it, she blinks and returns to her work. “Hold still.”
I’m hyperaware of how close she is, how if I leaned forward, our faces would be inches apart. I catalog the tiny freckle near her left temple, the way her teeth press into her lower lip as she concentrates.
“Done,” she says five minutes later, securing the fresh bandage with tape. Lily sits back, admiring her handiwork. “Much better.”
“Thanks,” I say, flexing my arm. “I should let you enjoy a bit of TV and?—”
“What are you going to do?” she interrupts.
I shrug. “Same. Pass out on the couch in front of the TV.”
She makes a weird face, one eyebrow arching up. “I’ve seen your living room. You don’t have a TV.”
Busted. “Ah, right. I keep forgetting that I’m supposed to go get a new one.”
She hesitates, fidgeting with the medical supplies as she puts everything back into the white plastic case. “Do you want to watch something with me?”
My heart wants to break free through my ribs and jump into her lap. “Sure.” I try not to sound desperate.
She sets aside the kit and grabs the remote.
We settle in, Lily on one end of the couch and me on the other, a respectful distance between us. She presses play on the movie she was about to watch, but I don’t follow the plot much, just note it’s about a group of friends in New York. The dialog blurs into the background, details slipping past while Lily absentmindedly twists a strand of hair as she gets absorbed in the story. I catalog what makes her laugh. What makes her tense.
Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy, the combination of physical exertion, good food, and a comfortable couch pulling me toward sleep. I fight it, not wanting to cut short my time with Lily…
* * *
I don’t remember falling asleep. The last thing I recall is her chuckling at something on screen, and me thinking how I could do this every night and never get bored. Watch TV with Lily at the end of a long day.
I blink awake to morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains, disoriented, not recognizing my surroundings. Then I register the weight on my chest. Lily is pressed against me, her head tucked under my chin, one hand curled in the fabric of my shirt. My right arm is pinned between us, but I wouldn’t move it for the world. We’ve shifted during the night. I’m sprawled on my back across her couch, and she’s draped over me. Her left leg is wedged between mine.
I lie wide awake, feeling every breath she takes against my neck as she sleeps. Savoring the weight of her body on me before reality sets in. How compromising the position is. How parts of me—specificallyonepart—are very intent on showing her just how little I want to be her friend. I focus my mental energy on unsexy things—tax forms, inventory logs, that time I got food poisoning from gas station sushi. Unlike in the shower yesterday, it has to work now.
But not even picturing the mildew in my old basement helps. Not when Lily makes a contented sound in her sleep and nuzzles closer.
I need to move before she wakes up and finds me in this state. I shift sideways so she’s not on top of me, sliding her onto the couch cushion. The movement jostles her enough that her eyes flutter open.
Gosh, she’s beautiful in the morning. Hair tousled, cheeks flushed with sleep, hazel eyes unfocused. She blinks up at me, confused.
“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite my racing heart. “Sorry, I passed out on your couch. That hike yesterday must’ve exhausted me more than I thought.”
“Crap. Sorry.” She scrambles off me like she’s been burned, her face flushing a deep red.
I try for humor. “It’s your fault. You’re very comfortable.”
“It’s okay,” she says, but she looks agitated, smoothing down her hair and tugging at her sweatshirt. “I need the bathroom,” she blurts, then hops off the couch and disappears down the hall, slamming the door behind her.
