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“I’m staying in here for a while,” I tell him. “Make sure you don’t croak from that concussion.”
I feel him take a long breath, and I brace for something shitty. Nothing comes. It’s the two of us on his bed…in the middle of the damn night. I keep still and listen as he sniffs then shifts his weight and takes another long breath. He doesn’t move his back away from mine. I can feel him breathing, feel the heat of his skin through his shirt.
“I’ll be able to tell if you’re not okay,” I explain.
It doesn’t even make sense. I’m not sure that’s true, either. But it’s something.
When another minute or so passes, his whole body shudders, and he draws slightly away. At one point, he takes a sharp breath, and I feel like he’s going to tell me to get lost, but he never does.
I shut my eyes, trying to pretend I’m not here in his bed. Just as I’m wondering if I should get up, I feel his body jerk, and then he’s still. He’s breathing slow and steady, and his back presses to mine again.
He’s relaxed now.
He’s asleep now.
I’m in Ezra’s bed with him, and he’s sleeping beside me—for a little while. I’m almost asleep, too, when I feel his body tense up. He lets out a groan, and I roll over, wrapping one arm tight around him without time to second guess myself.
“Hey there, angel. You’re okay.”
He moans, his whole damn body tense, and I hold him against me.
“You’re just having nightmares. Probably from the concussion.” He shudders, and I notice he feels sweaty. Shit. I press my forehead to his shoulder, feeling like hell for not making him go to the ER. And then he’s out again—in seconds.
I wake to sunlight and the muffled rain sound of the shower.
Wow. So I slept in here with him? I look down at myself, at my boxers and the morning wood that’s pushing at them. Jesus. When did he get in the shower? Guess he didn’t share the covers with me…
I go to my room via the hall and wait for him to turn the shower off. He does, and I try the door twice before I hear his footsteps on the stairs and realize fucker locked me out, the way he likes to do.
I go into the bathroom through his bedroom door, then shower fast and throw on old jeans with a hole in one knee, plus the vintage Smiths T-shirt I found at Goodwill and the first pair of Air Jordans I can grab. My heart is racing by the time I get down to the bottom of the stairs. I peek out the front window and bite my lower lip. His car is gone already.
Okay.
It’s not like it matters to me. We all know that Ezra is a fucking prick. A stubborn prick.
I hope he’s okay.
He comes to homeroom after me. I’m looking down at a notebook, tapping a pencil on the spirals, when I catch him out of the corner of my eye. I flick my gaze back down so he won’t see, and then he’s sliding into the desk right in front of mine.
I wait till he’s pulled something out of his bag, and then I let my eyes move over him the way they want to. He’s got on a black, collared button-up shirt that looks like it’s made of linen, and the fabric stretches tight across his shoulders when he moves a certain way. I can’t see his pants—wait, okay…now he shifted. Dude’s got on gray shorts. The sort of dressy kind. Not really dressy, but like Ralph Lauren type khakis, just in gray. The shirt is untucked, so he looks almost like a model in the middle of some photoshoot. He stretches a leg out, and I see low-rise, black Air Jordans on his feet.
Fuck, even his leg is gorgeous. Where he was looking lean and muscle-corded a few weeks back, now he’s looking sculpted—like something out of marble.
That calf.
I look back down at my notebook, rubbing my forehead.
Moron.
It was one thing to think ultra-lite Ezra was striking. But I’m wading into dangerous waters perving on this bulked-up Ezra I hugged last night in his fucking bed. Watching his hands as he rubs his neck. Admiring his fingers and his golden tanned nape.
I try to knock it off. Fuck knows what he would do if he knew how I’m feeling. I wonder what he thought when he woke up today—if he remembered why I was in his damn bed. I wonder if he remembers me hugging him.
He doesn’t, because he’s not gay, asshat. You’re just thirsty—for a bully. It’s pathetic.
It doesn’t get any better from homeroom. At lunch, I sit at his table like an automaton set on EZRA, and I try to listen to what he’s saying to others while I talk to Jenna. At one point, she tilts her head and gives me a weird look.
