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Instead of forcing the issue, I crawled in behind him and lay down. “Come here,” I beckoned, brushing my fingertips against the back of his arm.
Indecision warred on his features when he stared over his shoulder.
“It’s me or the closet.” I reminded him.
His eyes flickered, and guilt for bringing up the thing he clearly hated the most ate at me. “If you don’t want to, it’s okay,” I told him. “I can move to the bench.” I started to get up.
His hand lay against my chest, pushing me back down.
Color me surprised when, instead of putting his back to me, he rolled to face me. The cot was small, probably not even a twin. Neither of us lacked in size, so there was no option of leaving space between us.
I watched him tuck an arm beneath his head, then cringe.
“What is it?” I asked, ready to fix whatever it was.
“Nothing,” he whispered. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
Pretty sure that last part was said to reassure himself and not me. Remembering the blanket draped across the foot of the cot, I snatched it up and snapped it out. It was thin and scratchy, probably the shittiest piece of fabric they could find. Fucking dicks.
“Let’s warm up,” I said, draping it over us.
He reacted instantly, jerking away from the blanket so hard he rolled over the side of the cot. He grunted on impact with the floor but didn’t stay down, scrambling up to stand instead.
He paced away, agitation bleeding out of him as if he were covered with invisible cuts.
“What happened?” I asked, frustration welling beneath my skin. Why wouldn’t he just let me make it better?
How can you make it better when you don’t even know what’s wrong?
Maybe he doesn’t want you to make it better.
That last thought was more of a taunt and filled me with angry denial. Stalking toward him, I pulled him around, forcing him to look at me. “Tell me.”
His eyes darted away, and I hated it.
“Look at me, Matthew.”
He did, and I nodded in approval. Grasping his chin, I stared intently into his eyes. “I want your submission but never your surrender.”
That seemed to surprise him, and I watched awareness flood in, making me realize he’d been on autopilot before.
“Tell me,” I prompted.
His eyes flicked toward the blanket I didn’t even realize I still clutched. “It’s scratchy.”
Brows furrowing, I glanced at the shit fabric.
“I don’t want to touch it.”
I dropped the offending object instantly. Does he have sensory issues?
“It’s gone,” I said, showing him my empty hands. “Come lie down now.”
His eyes went back to the cot, and he scrubbed his hand up and down his arm.
I realized then that the material on the mattress wasn’t any better than the blanket. I moved back to the bed, pulling my T-shirt off as I went. If he’d been aware before, he was full-on alert as he stared at my naked retreating back.
Good.
