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Well, shit, he’d probably avoid me completely.
Isn’t that what you want?
“J?” he says warily.
My gaze drops to my lap. Whereas Mason’s dressed in too-revealing heather gray sweats that I have to consciously ignore, I’m grateful I’m wearing black joggers. I’m also grateful I put on a shirt too—a black Flyleaf tee, sleeves rolled up toward my shoulders.
Yet I still feel exposed.
Naked.
Bare in a way I’m not used to around him.
But I know that has nothing to do with clothes.
“Here,” I murmur, handing him the earbud I all but forgot I held clenched in my fist. It’s slick with my sweat, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he slips it into his left ear.
It’s only now that I remember there’s still music playing, albeit softly. Grabbing my phone, I unlock the screen and pull up Spotify. Finding the playlist I want, I hit shuffle.
The intro to “Dare You to Move” by Switchfoot kicks on, filtering into my right ear. Snorting softly, I crank the volume up a bit.
“You can change it if you want,” Mason says, humor evident in his deep, raspy voice.
I cut him a knowing look. “It’s fine.” A beat passes, and I fight a smirk. “We can listen to your Jesus thumping music.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s a good song. It can be open to interpretation.”
“Mhm,” I say distractedly, flipping to a blank page in my sketchbook.
“It makes me feel good.”
“Okay.”
“It’s…nostalgic. Reminds me of better times.”
Sucking in a cheek, I rest my thumb on the page and tilt my head, peeking over at him through my silver-blond hair. “Izzy liked it too.”
His jaw tightens, and his eyes bore into mine. “Yeah…” His brow furrows, and something passes through his pale eyes, there and gone before I can make sense of it. He drops his gaze, clears his throat and reclines back.
Cracking my neck, I join him, scooting down so I can curl into a ball again and rest my sketchbook against my thighs without straining my neck.
Since I’m expecting it this time, I don’t outwardly react when our shoulders knock, bare arms pressed against each other. He’s warm and sleep-soft; nowhere near as furnace-level hot as he was when I got plastered up against his hard, toned body this afternoon.
He yawns into his fist and wiggles around, trying to get more comfortable.
I give a little shake of my head, not taking my eyes off the blank paper. “C’mere.” Not waiting for a response, I reach down with the hand not holding the pencil and find his arm, dragging it over my midsection, several inches above where I rest my sketchbook.
And just like that, any hesitation he had a second ago slips away.
It’s been months since we cuddled like this—not since before I confessed my feelings for him. Not since before…that night, the one last fall,the night we don’t talk about, the night that changed fucking everything.
The night he keeps apologizing for, when I’d give anything to just forget.
And while everything still hangs heavily over us, it’s got nothing on our muscle memory as we finally cave into what we’ve both been craving all these months.
Mason rolls onto his side, facing me, scooting over so he’s pressed up right alongside me. He tucks his head in the spot between my shoulder and neck, his breaths hot little pants against the skin peeking out above my collar.
The tatted arm slung over my middle is a familiar, grounding comfort, and I find myself breathing a little easier.
