A second later, he’s inhaling the grilled cheese while I stifle a laugh. Once he’s finished, I help him off the counter and lead him upstairs, telling myself lie after lie.
It’s not a big deal.Stretched on my side, I lift the quilt and pat the mattress. He crawls into the space beside me.I’m just comforting him.My hand slides across the sheets to cover his.It’s what anyone would do.Our fingers tangle.It’s nothing.
He drifts off within minutes.
I watch him for hours.
Thirty-Three
CADE
Orange glowsthrough my closed eyelids. Sheets rustle. The scent of warm citrus fills my nose, worn cotton soft against my cheek. A steady thump-thump beats beneath the gentle rise and fall of my pillow…
My eyes snap open.
Blinding sunlight reflects off a line of golden trophies displayed on a floating shelf above a meticulously organized desk. A few evenly spaced posters of boring country singers and football players mid-catch decorate the walls. There’s not even a spec of dust in here. I push up on an elbow?—
Oh fuck.
That’s a drool puddle.
Mydrool puddle.
And it’s not on a pillow.
I’m torn between launching myself out the window and licking it up. The result is the same: going splat on the gravel driveway. Maybe if I’m quick enough?—
Mypillowstretches with a groan. “Hey.”
Goddamn, Sebastian’s morning voice is the shit of wet dreams. It’s rough and raspy and tickling something in my brainthat’s releasingallof the happy chemicals. I need to record it so I can fuck myself to it later.
“Cade?”
There’s a small mole just below his collarbone next to some freckles. It’s like a constellation naturally tattooed on his skin. I want to paint it. I haven’t painted anything consciously in years. I brace myself for her to berate me.
All I hear are the birds bickering in the tree outside.
“She’s quiet.”
The quilt puddles around Sebastian’s hips as he props himself up, his callused palm rough against my cheek. I nuzzle into it.
“You feeling more like… yourself?” he asks.
I bite my lip. I want to lie to keep this version of him. The one that holds these fractured pieces of me together. Who fills in the cracks with sidelong glances when he thinks I’m not looking and reassuring words whispered in the refrigerator light. I’m not ready to be discarded yet. What I should do is leave before he tells me to get the fuck out, but I’m incapable of moving. Not while he’s touching me. Not when my mind is my own again.
“For now.”
He removes his hand and shifts a few inches away. “That’s good.”
It sounds more like a question. I pick at the sheets. Denim blue.
“I hate the color blue.”
“Like you hate water?”
My eyes dart to his. “How do you know that?”
A line forms between his brows. “You told me. Last night.”
