I really appreciate that.
* * *
One night, he crashes on my side of the room.
It’s not a weird thing. It happens—the room is small, my gaming chair is more comfortable than his fancy desk chair, so he migrates there sometimes when he’s reading. I get back fromthe lab at 1 AM and he’s out cold. I just stand in the doorway for a second, catching my breath.
He looks different asleep. Less armored, I guess. The sharp edges go neutral, and you can see the kid he probably looked like before whatever high school did to him.
I’ve shared rooms before. I’ve lived in dorms, I’ve had roommates, I’m not a bitch about my space. But there’s a huge difference between sharing space and actively wanting someone to be in it.
You’re down bad,my brain helpfully suggests.
I tell my brain to shut the hell up because it makes no sense.
It doesn’t.
* * *
I’m grinding out an essay for a class I actually like, hitting that flow state where my hands know the drill and my brain is just along for the ride. Reid’s at his desk with a highlighter and whatever paper he’s destroying himself with this week.
The room is quiet.
At some point, he clicks his highlighter shut and says, “You’ve got something on your face.”
I touch my cheek, finding a smear of axle grease from the prototype I was messing with earlier. I have no idea how long I’ve been walking around like that.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“It looked hot.”
He goes back to his reading. I go back to mine. But I’m smiling, and I don’t catch it until the grin is already stuck there—a stupid smile over nothing. Over some grease and three words. I look at my screen and think:
Okay.
So.
That’s a thing.
I don’t know what to do with it. I’m honest enough to admit I don’t have the playbook for this. It’s not that I’m repressed—I know what I am. Or I thought I did. But either way, this doesn’t fit into any of the neat little categories I had filed away.
So I just sit with it.
In the quiet, with the rain starting up again outside, and the muffled chaos of Finn’s stream vibrating through the wall, I let it be a thing I don’t know the shape of yet.
For now, that’s valid.
* * *
There’s also the otherthing. The thing that runs parallel to our new friendship.
Reid uses the doll differently from the rest of them.
I noticed that on the first day when he wrecked my ass, and made me feel between heaven and hell. It’s not like I’ve got a spreadsheet tracking the actual differences—I’m not that unhinged—but when the rhythm changes, you feel it. Reid’s style registers even when my brain is powered down.
He takes his time. That’s the simplest way to put it.
Walker uses me like equipment, efficient and thorough. Finn uses me like something that’s just there and convenient, which is the point. Grant goes at it rough, which, fair, that’s just Grant. Miles is slow and considerate, but in a methodical way (unless he’s high).
