Because of course. Of course, I wore thedamnsweatpants today. The light gray ones with the UMS logo on the thigh, because I wasn’t planning on leaving the house. Until the Ethan situation happened. And now I’m lying here with ahalf-naked panic attack in my pants like a Greek statue of shame.
These sweatpants hide nothing. If she wakes up right now, it’s game over. I will have to fake my own death and transfer schools and possibly countries. Who gets hard watching Twilight?!
I’m trying to focus on anything else. Anything else.
Like the ceiling or that weird buzzing from the mini fridge. Or the way her chest moves up and down as she breathes deeply.
I stare at the ceiling more. Interesting. Wow.
This is fine. This is just cuddling. People cuddle all the time. Ethan once spooned me on a camping trip and tried to blame it on “body heat redistribution.” This is notthatdifferent.
Except it is, because this is Delilah.
And Delilah isn’t just anyone.
She’s got one hand curled into the collar of my hoodie like she forgot she was touching me. Her breath keeps fanning out across my chest in these soft little sighs, and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt more like a human shield in my entire life. Like I’m protecting something I shouldn’t even beallowedto look at.
God, she smells like shampoo and old books and a little bit of cinnamon.
How does she smell interesting? She fascinates me and honestly, it’s stupid howmuchshe fascinates me. I’ve never met someone who can make me feel this off-balance with just a look. Or a sigh. Or a sarcastic comment about my sandwich-making technique. And there’s this…wholeworldbehind her eyes. Like she’s been carrying a storm inside her since she was a kid, and she’s still trying to keep it contained. I recognize it in me. We’ve both always had to be independent, we just go about it differently. She doesn’tlet people in. She doesn’t want to need anyone. That’s obvious.
Butholy shit—I want to be the person she lets in.
I want to know what makes her laugh when no one’s looking. I want to know what she dreamed about when she was nine and life was hard. I want to know who hurt her, and why she still doesn’t let people hug her for longer than three seconds unless they trick her into it.
I want to know everything about Delilah Greer.
Fuck. I’m not supposed to be the guy who catches feelings for the one person who clearly doesn’t want to give them. But here I am, lying on a couch that’s way too small, not moving a damn muscle, because this girl—this beautiful, confusing, guarded girl—fell asleep in my arms.
I’m still. Still as a damn statue.
Which would be fine, if I wasn’t also starting to lose feeling in my left leg. And my lower back, I need to check the time. Not for any logical reason. Just because my body is begging for some sense of control over this situation.
Slowly—very slowly—I inch my hand toward the armrest where I’m pretty sure I left my phone. One wrong move and this whole carefully balanced cuddle ecosystem is going to implode. My fingertips find the corner of the phone case.Victory. I wiggle it forward like I'm defusing a bomb.
Finally, I pull it into view and squint at the screen.
3:07 AM.
Awesome.
Just a casual middle-of-the-night emotional crisis with a side of oh yeah, I have class tomorrow. A real one. With a quiz. That I haven’t studied for because I spent the day making grilled sandwiches and comforting a crying Ethan. And then accidentally falling in love with my project partner.
Cool.
Cool cool cool.
I should get up. Go home. Get in my own bed. Reset. Regroup. Ice my shoulder.
But… I don’t.
Because she’s still here. Still breathing steady against me. Still gripping my hoodie like I might disappear if she lets go.
And maybe I’m an idiot, or sleep-deprived, or both, but I’m not ready to move.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off. Not deeply—just one of those half-conscious, couch-induced naps where your neck is at the wrong angle and you’re vaguely aware your arm might never work properly again. I wake up to movement. Soft. Shifting. Then a stretch. She’s definitely awake now, adjusting her arm with a low, sleepy sigh as she starts to turn onto her side?—
And then, Disaster. Her hand stretches out across my stomach, seeking balance or warmth or god knows what.
