GreenArrow11
Not sure if you’re already off for the night, but don’t pick up any hitchhikers.
There. My eyes turn to the TV, to the home renovation show Poppy left on. They’re showing the home makeover, how the place started off all dark with too many small rooms and no central gathering place. Then the show cuts to the updated home, all open concept with tons of natural light.
Overrated.
I lean back against the headboard and change the channel.
Speaking of open with far too much light, Poppy comes out a moment later in oversized green and white stripe pajama bottoms and a faded red college T-shirt. It’s …
Ugh.
It’s so cute, I could shrivel up and die.
The hair on one side of her head is in a braid, and her fingers are working fast braiding the other side. When she finishes, she pinches the hair with one hand and takes the elastic she’s holding from her teeth with the other. Then she ties it onto the edge of the braid and gives me a smile.
Which she abruptly drops as she looks closer at me.
In bed.
With no shirt.
“Um, do you not have a shirt?” Poppy asks in a high voice.
I glance down. “Apparently not.”
She looks at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, her cheeks pink. “Could you maybe put one on?”
“I don’t sleep in shirts,” I say, more sharply than I intended. And then I feel guilty for the edge in my voice. “But I have a hoodie, if?—”
“No, it’s fine,” she says quickly, jumping into bed. “Just … never mind.”
The sheets rustle as she gets in. She tugs the comforter all the way up around her body, as ifshe’sthe one half-dressed. The space between us feels charged, even though she’s not taking up enough of it. Her hand juts out to turn off the reading lamp, but then she tucks it back under the sheets. She’s so far over on the bed, I half expect she’ll roll off if she breathes wrong.
“You okay there?” I ask with that lingering annoyance.
“Fine,” she says. “Good night.”
I turn off the TV and put down the remote too hard on the end table.
Somehow, going to sleep is making me feel like a villain. I huff and tuck the sheet under my armpits, keeping my arms out. “Do you want me to put on a sweatshirt?”
“Do you normally sleep … bare-chested?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. I can feel her nod, but she doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t bring a pajama shirt, but if you need meto wear something, I will. I didn’t realize it would make you uncomfortable.”
She lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m not … uncomfortable.” Her exhale is loud, but her next words are muttered. “Try flustered.”
Flustered?
My heart does something stupid in my chest. Her reaction isn’t discomfort—it’s awareness. Of me. Shirtless. I like that idea more than I should.
But I still feel like I should explain. Like she should know this isn’t me trying to … seduce her.
Heat crawls up my neck, pushing my words out.
“The accident that ended my career—it was a fastball to the wrist. Shattered it. I had to have surgery with screws and pins. Then I had a post-surgical splint. Then a cast. The recovery was awful, but my mental state was worse. My mom was helping Evan still, and my granddad and dad weren’t exactly sympathetic, so I took care of myself. But it was harder than I expected. How long it took me to throw on a shirt the first time made me feel useless, so I stopped wearing one. It was a dark time for me. But something about seeing my body everyday and noticing how my muscles moved when I did dumb stuff like make an omelette—it reminded me that my body served more than one purpose. It wasn’t just baseball or nothing. It helped me want to work out again. Want to shower,” I add, remembering how hard that was the first few times, how it felt like such an accomplishment, physically and mentally. “It sounds so stupid.”
