But lying here with Jay doesn't feel strange at all. It feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like a piece of me is finally clicking back into place.
When we were kids, I used to crawl into Jay's bed when I was scared. He never complained, never pushed me away. He would just shift over to make room, and I would curl up against his back, and somehow the fear would get smaller. The monsters in my head couldn't reach me when Jay was there.
He was safety. He was home.
I feel the same way now. Like the monsters can't reach me. Like I'm finally somewhere safe, somewhere I belong. After years of placements and group homes and finally the Reyes family—who I love, who saved me—I've never felt as safe as I do right here, in this terrible motel room, with Jay beside me.
Hours later, I wake up in the dark, disoriented and confused.
For a moment I don't know where I am. The bed is unfamiliar, too soft and lumpy. The sounds are wrong—no Rosalyn moving around in the kitchen, no Caleb's cartoons, no familiar creaks of the Reyes house settling. The smell is different—dust and something male and warm. Then it comes back to me in a rush that makes my heart stutter—the mug shot, the drive, Jay opening the door, his face when he recognized me, everything that happened after.
I'm still in the motel room.
I'm with Jay.
But something has changed.
We've shifted in our sleep, the way bodies do when they're sharing a small space and unconscious minds seek comfort. We're not lying side by side anymore, careful and separate. Somehow, in the hours since I fell asleep, we've moved closer.
Jay is pressed against my back, his chest warm and solid against my shoulder blades. His arm is draped across my waist, heavy and secure, his hand resting on my stomach, fingers curled loosely against my shirt. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, slow and even, still deep asleep. His legs are tucked behind mine, knees fitting into the curve of my own. We're pressed together from shoulders to feet, not an inch of space between us.
We're spooning. There's no other word for it, no way to describe it that's less intimate. We're curled together like puzzle pieces, like lovers, like we were made to fit this way.
My heart is pounding. I can feel it hammering against my ribs, can hear the blood rushing in my ears.
I should move. That's my first thought, the instinct that fires before anything else. I should shift away, put some space between us, preserve whatever boundaries exist between two people who grew up as foster brothers.
This is—this is something, isn't it? Something we should probably talk about? Something that crosses a line?
But I don't move.
I lie there in the dark, frozen, feeling the weight of Jay's arm across my waist, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, feeling his breath on my neck with each exhalation, and I don't move. Because the truth is, I don't want to move. I don't want to break this, whatever this is. I don't want to shatter this moment, this feeling of being held, of being wanted, of being home.
I want to stay right here, wrapped up in Jay.
His arm tightens slightly around me, a reflexive movement in sleep, pulling me closer against his chest. I can feel his heartbeat now, steady and strong against my back. He makes a soft sound in his sleep, something between a sigh and a murmur, and I feel it vibrate through his chest into my back, the sound traveling through both our bodies.
My heart is beating faster than it should be. There's something happening in my body, some response I'm not prepared for. A hyperawareness of every single point where his body touches mine—his chest against my back, his arm across my waist, his hand on my stomach, his breath on my neck, his legs tangled with mine.
It's not uncomfortable.
It's not unwelcome.
It's definitely not anything I want to stop.
It's just... there. This feeling. This pull. This awareness of him not as Jay-my-foster-brother, not as Jay-who-protected-me, but as Jay. A man. Someone whose body is pressed against mine in a way that makes my skin feel too tight and my breath come faster.
I think about how he looked earlier, when I first really saw him standing in that doorway. The dark eyes that went wide with recognition. I think about how I couldn't stop looking at him, couldn't stop drinking in every detail. How I still can't, even now, even in the dark when I can't see his face.
I don't know what this means. I don't know if this feeling in my chest is just the overwhelming relief of finding him, or if it's something else. Something more.
We're just two people who are finally together again after thinking we'd lost each other forever.
Of course, it feels intense. Of course, holding each other feels like the most important thing in the world.
That's all this is.
Jay shifts again in his sleep, his face pressing more firmly into the back of my neck, his nose brushing against my hair. His breath is warm on my skin, sending shivers down my spine. Fuck, that feels good. His arm pulls me even closer, if that's possible, like he's dreaming that I'm slipping away and he's trying to keep me here.
