I launch myself up the ladder?—
Straight onto the fourth rung.
The bung rung.
The bung rung that pops free like a loose tooth, sending my leg sharply through the ladder?—
Right towards Trent’s face.
But it doesn’t hit.
Neither does the lower rung ram into my middle bits.
Light tumbles. A sharp breath.
Trent catches me.
One hand braces the sole of my foot, the other firm under my thigh, holding me up.
I grip the top rail, trying to take some of my weight, trying not to think about the warmth of his fingers shifting subtly against my skin, adjusting. Keeping me steady.
I look down.
The phone has fallen, its glow now softer, warmer, over Trent, over us.
He’s swung up into a sitting position, half off his own bed, head tipped slightly as his gaze flickers over my face and down. Like he’s trying to make sense of it all.
I am, too.
My breath snags.
Slowly, he looks up.
Eyes darker in this light.
“Dylan?” he murmurs.
Not Ika. Not his brother’s name. Mine.
Maybe that’s why I blurt it: “I’m staying.”
A pause.
“Here?”
I nod. The heat of his hand burns on my skin.
“For how long?”
He’s holding me up, but the position isn’t stable. His arms tense, a slight shake in his grip.
Then—his thumb shifts, a small adjustment, nothing more, but it?—
It slips. Upwards.
Too close to... something that can’t happen between ‘brothers’.
Trent’s breath stalls and his fingers tighten, a desperate attempt to stop them slipping further.Do I want them slipping further?
