What time was it?
The alarm clock on the nightstand read 7:43 a.m. Early enough.
And the person in his bed?
Still there.
This was usually the part where Dustin reached for his phone, just to have a sort of barrier. Something to look at that wasn't the person next to him. He was never rude or mean. Just... done. The night was the night and the morning was the morning and those were different things.
But his phone was across the room where he'd thrown it at the wall after Cathy's call.
Just as well. He didn't want it.
The thought caught him off guard.
Turning his head on the pillow, he looked at Greg.
The reaper was heavily asleep, on his stomach with one arm tucked under the pillow and his face turned toward Dustin. Mouth slightly open.
He looked younger without the glasses. Soft in a way that made Dustin want to reach out again.
His gaze drifted to the space between them. Eight inches, maybe. If either of them shifted, they'd be touching.
But Dustin didn't move. He listened to the rhythm of Greg's breathing, catalogued the way his fingers curled loosely against the sheet, the faint crease between his eyebrows, like even in sleep he was mildly concerned about something.
He was studying Greg, he realized, the way he studied a jump site, taking inventory, reading the details, learning the shape of something he was about to throw himself into.
Except he didn't do that with people. He didn'tlearnpeople. He slept with them and moved on, and the not-moving-on part was new and unwelcome and sitting in his chest like something he'd swallowed wrong.
He needed to get dressed. He needed to get his phone.
He was about to sit up when he noticed something about Greg's hand.
The edges of his curled fingers were going translucent as if the boundary between Greg and the rest of the world had gotten blurry overnight.
Dustin stared.
It wasn't just the hand. Greg's forearm had the same faded quality, and so was his shoulder. He was stillthere, but the definition was going. Like a signal losing reception.
No.
This wasnothappening.
Dustin wasn't going to allow it.
He reached over and touched Greg's hand.
The effect receded. Not all the way; Greg's edges didn't snap back to full resolution, but his fingers looked like fingers again instead of a rough draft of fingers.
“Greg.” Dustin squeezed his hand. “Hey. Wake up.”
Greg made a soft sound and burrowed further into the pillow.
“Greg.”
“Mm.” The reaper's brow creased. He turned his face deeper into the pillow, and the gesture was so human, so mundane, that Dustin almost smiled. “Please more sleep.”
Even drowsy he was polite.
