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4. “Stay With Me”
Grayson
A scream jolted me out of a dream involving a pint-sized, moody man who seemed to have dug his claws into me. My brain felt momentarily fuzzy, disoriented, unsure of my surroundings. Another moan, followed by a thump, echoed through the wall closest to my bed, and the events of the previous night rushed back.
In a panic, I sprinted into the hallway, hurdling over shoes and heaps of laundry I’d dumped there to make space for Colton as best I could. I breathed a sigh of slight relief when I established the chair I’d sneakily shoved under the guest room door handle, a makeshift barricade to keep him in place, remained.
Upon our return to my place, Colton had been reserved as I fed him leftover soup, and he’d turned in early after I had made up the spare bed. He rejected my attempts to feed him anything more substantial, but I left a sandwich and a glass of water on the nightstand just in case he changed his mind. Then I’d used the chair to lock him in, my trust that he’d peacefully sleep the night away and not attempt an escape, almost nonexistent.
Confirmation came swiftly when I heard something heavy crash against the wall as soon as the door clicked shut. Oh well, he had food, water, and an ensuite. He’d live.
The fact that the chair remained undisturbed eased some of my panic. Unless he possessed superhuman strength and miraculously unjammed the window that had been rusted shut for over a decade, I could reasonably assume he was physically safe.
Taking away the chair, I knocked twice and waited a beat for him to respond. Another shout from inside pushed aside my inclination to respect his privacy. Tearing open the door, a lump formed in my throat at the sight of Colton still asleep, thrashing and entangled in the sheets. Contemplating the best way to wake him from his nightmare—while also briefly distracted by his bare chest—I startled when a sharp pain radiated up my foot. Bending down, I discovered a jagged piece of ceramic lamp had scored into my heel, tiny droplets of blood welling out of the shallow cut.
At least that solved the mystery of the object he threw last night in anger. Could have been worse, I suppose. For a brief moment, a twinge of worry hit me when I remembered leaving my laptop on the tiny desk in the corner, fearing for its safety from the wrath of Colton. I had even entertained the idea of ducking back in there last night to retrieve it but I hadn’t wanted for him to feel like I suspected he would steal my shit.
Which I knew he wouldn’t do. But the chances it wouldn’t end up meeting the same fate as my lamp? Debatable.
Carefully sidestepping the mess, I came to a halt when my legs brushed against the edge of the mattress. I crouched in front of Colton’s still-tossing body, being cautious not to startle him awake with any sudden movements.
Deciding on his arm being the safest option, I clasped my fingers around his sweaty bicep, noting that he seemed to be burning up. I mentally crossed my fingers, hoping it was just from the nightmare and not some nasty illness from a raccoon bite in the back alley. Those creatures can be vicious, and if I recalled correctly from some class or another, they carry rabies. Given Colton’s earlier “dumb jock” comment, I decided to keep my worries to myself for now. Panic didn’t need to set in until there was foaming at the mouth happening.
Probably…
Colton’s jerking under my fingers snapped me back to the task at hand. Right, deal with nightmares first, potential infectious diseases second. As gently as my giant mitts allowed, I jostled his arm to wake him. When that proved ineffective, I applied a bit more force, only managing to elicit another whimper from him. Okay, time to pull out the big guns. Leaning down, I scooped up his tiny frame and gave him a full-body shake to coax him to wake up.
A surprisingly forceful fist to my left eye made it abundantly clear, about a second too late, that it had been a terrible plan. The immediate sharp pain meant I’d likely have an impressive shiner in the morning. Oddly, instead of letting him go, the hit compelled me to hold onto Colton even tighter. Unhappy with my newfound embrace, he retaliated by wildly flailing his limbs in my direction, not caring where he made contact, as long as it hurt.
Logic would dictate that I should set him back down on the bed and make a swift exit. Did I? Not even close.
Instead, I adjusted my hands, securing his arms underneath mine in a bear hug, rendering him largely immobilized. My hands rested on his back, and I began to pet him, whispering soft assurances like 'shh' and 'it's okay' until he went limp in my arms. Truthfully, he probably just resigned himself to the situation with his usual scowl rather than actually calming down, but it was a start.
Once it seemed the fight had left him, I lowered him back to the bed, treating him like a delicate piece of glass rather than a surly guy with a mean right hook. Reluctant to release my hold on Colton, I slid into the bed behind him, keeping my arms around him at all times. It took a few tries, but I managed to maneuver us into a reasonably comfortable position.
For a while, we lay there in silence, neither of us speaking as I monitored his breathing to assess if he had recovered from his disrupted sleep. I took stock of our situation, realizing for the first time how little clothing separated our heated skin. But now wasn't the time to focus on that little detail.
Outwardly, he appeared much calmer, though the rapid pace of his heartbeat under my palm told a different story. The real question lingered—whether his quickened heartbeat stemmed from the nightmare or my current proximity.
Colton didn't strike me as the kind of person who had been hugged a lot growing up, his position in the foster care system clear evidence of a turbulent home life. A conviction that grew firmer as I recalled a vivid memory from the day I strolled behind the cafeteria, on a mission to see if I could bribe Carol for a snack before gym class began. There, I stumbled upon a scene that heightened my suspicions.
Carol, the lovely mom of a junior, who volunteered at the cafeteria, was elbow-deep in unloading the week’s food delivery. To my absolute shock, Colton emerged from the back of the delivery truck, weighed down with a stack of boxes almost as tall as him.
In an even more surprising turn of events, he and Carol engaged in a banter of inappropriate jokes, exchanging laughs as they heaved box after box of produce. I positioned myself discreetly beside the building, concealed by a row of shrubs, utterly captivated by the unfolding scene. Colton wore a genuine smile, an unfamiliar expression that transformed his whole face, and I found myself falling just a little bit deeper for the beautiful broken boy who continually managed to surprise me.
It didn’t escape my notice that numerous other students ambled past, oblivious or indifferent, as I observed the duo. Not a single one extended an offer to help. Which, duh, I realized I should do. Even if it meant risking the return of Colton’s icy exterior when he discovered I’d been watching him.
“Hey, let me get that,” I called out, jogging up behind him and grabbing his elbows to steady his arms as he grappled with a box significantly heavier than he could easily lift.
The box promptly slipped from his grip, scattering oranges around us as Colton pivoted, hitting me with his trademark scowl. “I’m perfectly capable of lifting a box, you giant oaf!”
Choosing to embrace my smartass side, I glanced pointedly at the bruised fruit around our feet, raising an eyebrow as if to silently ask, ‘Are you sure about that?’
His mouth tightened until his plush lips were no longer visible.
“So, you’re lending a hand to Carol? That’s nice of you,” I remarked as he continued scowling.
“I’m not helping anyone,” he muttered, gaze fixed on his worn black boots.
