Silence stretched between us.
“I already had you,” I added. “So frequently, I wanted more sleep.”
The blanket shifted.
“Can I touch you?”
“Yes.”
His right hand found my forearm.
He traced upward over my sleeve, slowly enough that every inch of contact became distinct. His palm settled on my shoulder.
“You’re real.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds foolish.”
“It doesn’t.”
“The photographs make everything seem invented. You don’t.”
My throat tightened.
“I’m here.”
He moved closer by an inch.
Then another.
His head rested against my shoulder.
“Is this how we slept?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did you do?”
I waited.
“With your arm,” he clarified.
“You usually stole my pillow.”
“No.”
“You did.”
“What did you do with your arm, Reid?”
I lifted it slowly.
“May I?”
“Yes.”
I placed my arm around him.
