Page 73 of Where the Snakes Sleep

“That wasn’t really—”

“And you do not annoy me.”

I give him a look. “You definitely find me annoying.”

“Maybe a bit.”

“Camille.”

His mouth curves, but the humor lasts only a second before he says, “You annoy me frequently. I find that I have become distressingly fond of it.”

My heart does an acrobatic maneuver I would like to formally object to. “Okay.”

“And I do not want you to stop coming here.”

“Okay.”

“I would prefer that you come more often.”

My face heats. “That’s dangerously close to feelings.”

“I am aware.”

The admission catches me completely off guard, and neither of us seems to know what to do with it.

But then Camille reaches for my hand, slowly. His fingers slide beneath mine, turning my palm upward before folding around it.

My eyes sting again.

Fantastic.

We sit like this for a long time, my hand in his, my mind floating somewhere just outside my body. The silence is not uncomfortable, for once. Camille’s thumb traces lazy arcs across the back of my hand, slow and thoughtful, like he is memorizing each bone and tendon for later reference. And then, after some indefinite period, I yawn with a violence that nearly cracks my jaw.

“You should sleep,” Camille says, so quietly I’m not sure he’s really said it.

I yawn again. “I’m not sure I can.”

He looks at me for a long moment, head tilted, studying me as if I am a particularly difficult puzzle, and then stands, gently pushing on my shoulder when I go to follow him. “Why don’t you lie down?”

I allow myself to be pushed down against the cushions, too tired to care. Once I’m down, Camille drapes the blanket over me, then just sits on the floor next to me.

We stay like that, my body slowly dissolving into sleep-molecule, my mind drifting closer and closer to the edge of unconsciousness. My eyelids droop. I lose track of how much time passes.

He doesn’t speak again until I shift, blinking blearily into the darkness. He must’ve turned off the light.

“May I help you?” he asks.

“With what?”

He places a hand on my abdomen over the blanket, then ever so slowly slides it lower, over the waistband of my pajama pants, then under both the blanket and my pants, the heat of his palm a shock against my skin.

“With this,” he says, voice pitched at a gentle rumble.

My brain is so foggy I process this almost as an offer of a heating pad or a sedative. I laugh, half-delirious. “We said we weren’t going to have sex tonight.”

“This is not sex,” he says, and there’s a wryness to it, but no argument. He kisses the side of my throat, his hand still, a warm anchor on my skin. “I only wish to help you sleep. If you would prefer I stop—”

I yawn again and twist, rolling onto my back. “I didn’t say stop.”