Page 20 of For Pucking Ever

"Sit," he says, gesturing to the couch.

I sink into the leather, watching as he moves around the room, adjusting blinds to filter the light rather than block it completely. He pulls a throw from a basket, tosses it beside me, then disappears into the kitchen.

When he returns, he's carrying two glasses of water and a bottle of pills. "Your meds," he says, setting everything on the coffee table.

He stands there awkwardly for a moment, like he's trying to remember how to be a normal human being around another person. It would be funny if it wasn't so painfully familiar.

"I don't need a babysitter," I say, though my earlier plea suggests otherwise.

One corner of his mouth quirks up, not quite a smile, but close. "Good. Because I'd make a terrible one." He sits on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a careful space between us. "We've been doing this wrong."

"This?"

"Recovery." He gestures between us. "You hiding in that room. Me. . ." He trails off, shrugging. "Being me."

I take a sip of water, buying time. "And what exactly is 'being you'?"

"A pain in the ass, according to most people."

Despite everything, I snort. "You don't say."

For a moment, I see a flash of the Bast I met last summer. The one who teased me relentlessly, who kissed me senseless behind a funnel cake stand, who made me feel like I was flying. Before everything went to hell.

"I'm not good at this," he admits, staring down at his hands. "Taking care of people."

"Could've fooled me. You've been practically running a hospital wing up there."

He shakes his head. "That's different. That's. . ." He searches for the word. "Clinical."

I know what he means. He's been the perfect caretaker, efficient, thorough, distant. Making sure I take my meds, eat, sleep, go to my appointments. But never really present.

"I don't need clinical," I say quietly. "I just need. . ." You. The word sticks in my throat.

Bast nods like he understands anyway. "I know."

He reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, volume low. Some cooking show fills the screen. People frantically chopping vegetables and tossing ingredients at each other as a timer counts down in the background.

"Is this okay?" he asks, and I realize he's not just asking about the show.

I nod, letting my head fall back against the cushions. "Yeah." I pull the throw over my legs, settling in. "This is okay."

We watch in silence for a while, the tension slowly bleeding from my shoulders. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's better. It's a start.

When my eyes grow heavy, I don't fight it. For the first time in weeks, the darkness doesn't feel like it's closing in.

Just before I drift off, I feel Bast shift beside me, not away, but closer. His hand finds mine on top of the blanket, fingers lightly brushing my knuckles.

"We'll figure it out," he says softly.

I'm not sure if he's talking to me or himself. Either way, I believe him.

EIGHT

SEBASTIAN

Icouldn't move from this spot even if I wanted to. I should move but I don't.

Derrick is slumped against my shoulder, the weight of him anchoring me to the couch like gravity has shifted just for us. His breathing is slow and steady, warm through the fabric of my shirt. One of his hands rests in his lap, the other curled loosely against my thigh like he reached for something without realizing it.