I don’t want to finish the question because if the answer is yes, then I’m the worst.
His radiant smile brightens his eyes, lit only by the escaping light from the bathroom doorway. “No. It wasn’t when we did a terrible job of cleaning the dishes, or an even worse job of kicking the Uno deck to the floor once we got back to the couch. It was…”
“I fell asleep on your chest!” I interrupt with delight, the memory starting fuzzy, but the edges quickly solidify. I remember our kiss beginning in the kitchen, soft and unsure after the shitty things I said to him. Then the couch, his continued kisses, soft and gentle, telling me what I said hadn’t ruined the evening.
Then total and utter exhaustion. I forgot, but it wasn’t permanent. Somehow with Griffin, memories return.
He sits on the edge of the bed next to me. “I hope it’s okay. I walked you in here so you’d be more comfortable. You didn’t want me to take you home.”
I sit up, suddenly aware of what the time means.
“I missed the last bus.”
He brushes my hair, wild from sleep, out of my face and behind my ear.
“I can take you home whenever you need,” he says, and I shake my head. The thought of him in my apartment, of him seeing who I really am—that’s when whatever this is will be over. Because he has no idea what he’s really getting himself into with me, and the longer I can keep him from seeing, the longer we can pretend that none of it matters. That nothing outside of what we let each other see exists.
“Or, you could stay. It’s late. You’re wiped out.”
He grabs a book from the nightstand, A Storm of Swords, book three in George R.R. Martin’s Game of Thrones series. He wasn’t kidding.
“I have some reading to do, so your snoring won’t bother me.”
“I don’t snore!” I slap him lightly on his stomach, and a flash of heat runs through me. Independent of thought, my hand walks up his torso to the healing wound on his chest. For a second I go blank but then brush it off as sense memory kicks in. My hands have been here before, and their recollection picks up the slack of my own.
I press my eyes closed, giving myself a beat to collect my thoughts, trying not to read into this momentary lapse.
“Your fence attack is healing.”
He smiles, placing his palm over my hand so it lies flat against his skin.
“Skin-deep shit heals quickly.”
I know, I want to tell him. But I say nothing, letting the thought linger for only a second before I push it away, before my eyelids grow heavy with sleep again.
“I’ll take the first morning bus,” I tell him through a yawn, and he climbs over to the other side of the bed, book in hand, and I realize I must be on his side of the bed.
“We can switch,” I say, propping myself up on my elbow to face him.
He reaches over me to the nightstand again. “Don’t worry. Just need these.”
And there he sits, no shirt, flannel pants hugging his hips, and wire-framed reading glasses perched on his nose.
Suddenly I’m not so sleepy.
I look down to the floor and find my bag, retrieving my camera.
“Can I?” My face grows hot, and I can’t finish the question. Because I don’t take pictures for any reason other than necessity, to help me focus. But this. It’s not simply that he’s fun to look at. It’s the intimacy of the moment, a piece of him that’s more than skin deep. I don’t want to forget this.
He opens the book and starts reading, or feigns reading. Either way, I take his silence, his hint of a grin, as permission.
Click.
As soon as the photo appears, I pull it free and watch his figure develop, first as a blur of rainbow colors, then the outline of him crystalizing into focus, bit by bit, until he’s there, fully formed and complete.
More than skin deep. That’s what you are.
He rests his forearms on his knees and watches me watching him in photo form. When it’s too much, when I can’t look away, I set the picture gingerly on the nightstand and crawl over the inches between us, resting my head on his chest.
“Thank you,” I say.
He strokes my hair. “For what?”
“For tonight. The pizza. The games. All of it.” I let my lips brush his skin. “For a non-date. It’s one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.”
My eyes are heavy again as my breaths move in time with the rise and fall of his chest.
“Come home with me tomorrow,” he says, his voice hoarse and low. “Don’t answer me now. Sleep on it. It’s only Sunday brunch. We do it every week. But I think…” He says nothing else for several seconds, and I wait, not letting sleep in until he finishes. “I think I’d like it if you were there with me.”
He slides down so I lie flat, his body my pillow, one hand stroking my hair, the other propping his book open against his knees. When he dips his head to kiss mine, that’s when I surrender, letting sleep—and thoughts of Griffin—take me.