He puts the disc in without argument.
We settle onto the couch, not too close, not far either. Theair between us has shifted — lighter somehow, even after everything.
Halfway through the movie, I realize something strange.
I feel… still. Not like my body is still—that happens every day when I’m sleeping or reading or waiting for my bus—but internally. I’m not mentally writing tomorrow’s to-do list or thinking about class readings I haven’t done or checking the corners of the room for some metaphorical fire to put out.
I’m just… sitting. Breathing.
Existing in this tiny, warm space with Troy Hawkins beside me, mouthing along to the stupid lines in Twilight.
His arm leans against mine and I don’t pull away.
At some point, I yawn. Not because I’m bored, but because I’m comfortable. My spine’s curved into the old couch cushions, and my socks are tucked under me.
“C’mere, Greer,” he says, stretching an arm across the back of the couch.
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”
He’s grinning, all lazy and self-satisfied. “I’m cold. Come warm me up.”
My mouth opens. “It’s not a proposal, I just want to be warm,” he adds, like that clarifies anything.
“I don’t cuddle,” I tell him, like it’s a matter of personal hygiene. Even though that’s a lie, I love to cuddle. Just not with him, or with anybody I might actually catch feelings for.
“Sure you do,” he says, cocking his head. “You just haven’t cuddled me yet.”
I should say no. I want to say no. But somehow—I have no idea how—my body moves before my brain can catch up, and I shift, slow and reluctant, into the space he’s opened for me.
I. Cuddle. Troy. Hawkins.Aaaand sit like a terrified statue the entire time.
He lets out a soft laugh, his breath warm against my ear. “Relax, Greer. I’ve got you.”
His arm curls around my shoulder, fingers stroking absentmindedly through my hair. I think I stop breathing for a second. Not because I’m scared—well, okay, I am—but because something about those words…
Relax, I’ve got you.
They land somewhere deep. Somewhere I’ve spent years trying to forget even exists.
I breathe. I let my body lean into his. I rest my head on his chest, right over his heartbeat. And bit by bit, I feel myself loosen. The tension in my shoulders. My jaw. Even my fists, usually curled somewhere in preparation for life to hit.
And still, part of me—quiet but sharp—doesn’t understand what’s happening. Troy Hawkins isn’t supposed to bethis.
It’s messing with my head. But I don’t move or say anything because right now, I don’t want to leave this moment. And maybe that’s the scariest part.
I don’t know how long we sit like that. And just before sleep tugs me under, I swear—I swearI feel him tracing slow lines down my arm and whispering my name.
25
TROY
Ican’t move. I literallycannotmove.
My arm is under Delilah’s shoulders. My other hand is sort of… hovering. Like it fell asleep in midair and forgot to land. My back is flat against her tiny-ass couch, and there’s a woman, a terrifying, brilliant woman, sleeping on my chest.
And I swear to god, if I even breathe too hard and wake her up, I’m going to die. Not from embarrassment. From her murdering me. So I stay still. So still that I can feel my muscles starting to cramp. My spine’s like, “Bro, what are we doing?” and my knees are like, “You betrayed us.” But I ignore them. I ignore everything. And, to make matters even worse, I’ve got araginghard on.
Not just a casual, “oh I rolled over weird” situation. No. This is a full-blown, absolutely rock-hard, traitorous gray sweatpants moment.
