The unbearable softness of it.
And for a second I understand something I wish I didn't.
If I lose this, it's going to destroy me.
Morning light comes in gradually through the gap in the curtains and lands across the side of his face.
My alarm goes off at five thirty and I reach over and kill it quickly before it wakes him, which is something I didn't know I was going to do until I did it.
He stirs anyway. A sound. A shift. Those dark eyes open slowly and unfocused and land on me and for one second before he's fully awake he just looks at me like I'm a good thing to wake up to. Then he blinks and starts coming back to life.
"Did you watch me sleep?"
"I was waiting for my alarm so I could turn it off."
"That's a yes."
"It's not."
"Jamie." He stretches, arms overhead, back arching off the mattress, and I follow every movement. "You were watching me sleep, you creep. I'm not mad about it, though. I'm very cute when I sleep."
"You snore and you drool and your hair is everywhere."
"Lies from a liar." He sits up, hair going in four directions, rubbing his face. He's wearing my shirt. I gave it to him last night without thinking and now he's sitting on my bed in it looking like — he looks like that and I need to get up and get to the rink.
"We have practice," I say, looking anywhere but him.
"I know." He doesn't move. Just looks at me sideways, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and knows I don't. "Thank you. For yesterday." I grab my gear off the chair.
"That’s too much, calm down."
He smiles at his hands. Like he expected exactly that anddecided it was enough. I don't know what to do with that so I throw his jacket at his head and tell him he has eight minutes. He makes it in seven. I'm lacing up by the door when he comes out of the bathroom. Hair damp. Still in my shirt under his open jacket. Eating one of the protein bars off my counter as if he lives here, and he catches me looking and raises an eyebrow.
"What?"
"That's mine."
"You have so many, Jamie."
"That's not the point, Rhys, I have a system—"
He crosses the room. Stops right in front of me, close enough that I have to look down slightly, and holds the protein bar out for me to take a bite. I don't take it. He tilts his head. That look — the one that means he's about to do something and has already decided how it ends. Then he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. Soft. Quick. Gone before I can process it. He steps back. Eyes bright. Mouth pulled up at one corner. "For the bar," he says, like that's an explanation.
I stare at him. He finishes the protein bar and picks up his bag and opens the door like he didn't just do that.
"You coming or what, Nash?"
I grab my keys, smiling to myself.
We walk to the rink together. Campus is empty. Cold. Our breath misting, footsteps on the pavement, the trees bare against a white sky. His shoulder bumps mine on the narrow path once, twice, like he can't quite stay in his own lane and isn't trying very hard to.
I don't move away either.
"You're thinking loud," he says.
"I'm not thinking anything."
"You get this line." He touches my forehead. "Right here. When you're in your head."
