When I opened my bleary eyes, he was over me. "Are we friends again?" he asked, grinning.
I put my hand on his cheek and said very seriously. "We were never just friends."
He sobered. "I know."
I smiled. "But you are good at that."
He nuzzled his head into my neck. "I know."
I pushed at him and he chuckled. "I'm just kidding."
"No, you're not."
"Okay, I'm not."
I went serious. I didn't like to think about how he'd gotten so good at that. A ball of red-hot jealousy was burning in my chest and I felt like throwing things again.
"Come here," he said, pulling the blankets over himself and holding them open for me to slide inside next to him. I did. He spooned into me as he pulled the blankets up over us. I could feel his arousal pressing against my ass. I wiggled into him and he hissed. I reached behind me to stroke him, but he held my hand against my hip. "Let me just hold you," he said into my ear.
"But you—"
"Let me hold you," he repeated.
I paused, but relaxed back into his hard chest. "Have you," I bit my lip, "held other girls like this?" I dared to ask. I held my breath, waiting for his answer. I so desperately wanted just one part of him that he hadn't shared with another girl.
"No," he said quietly. "Just you." I relaxed again, joy filling my chest. He brought his arm around me and pulled me even closer. He was warm and big and I melted into him, feeling safe and protected and so very, very comfortable. I sighed and he kissed my shoulder. "Sleep, little spitfire," he whispered.
We were both quiet for a few minutes and I wondered if he'd fallen asleep.
"I won't regret this when you leave," I whispered.
For a minute there was only the sound of the wind outside the window. And then he said very softly, "Neither will I."
I fell into a peaceful sleep and when I woke to Kyland's hand running lazily between my legs in the middle of the night, I sighed and opened my eyes, watching the gently falling snow through the window next to his bed. He brought me to orgasm and then I returned the favor, stroking him until he panted and groaned out his own release, calling my name into the darkness of the room.
In the deep of the night, I heard what sounded like choking sounds and I woke up tangled with Kyland, his skin clammy and his muscles tense. "Kyland," I whispered, shaking him slightly. He startled awake.
"You were dreaming."
He sucked in a big breath.
"Yes."
"What was it about?" I stroked my fingers through his hair.
He paused, but then answered me. "Them. Down there, buried alive under the earth. I dream of them sometimes. And it feels like I'm choking."
I pressed myself closer to his body and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry."
He exhaled a loud breath. "They lived for three days down there before the oxygen was gone. Three days."
I hadn't known that. I knew there was a rescue effort, and I knew when they found the men, they were all dead, but I hadn't known they'd been able to tell they had lived for three days. I shivered, imagining what that must have been like.
"Is that why you have—"
"Claustrophobia?" He paused. "Partly. When I was about seven, my brother and I were playing hide-and-seek in the woods next to the Privens' house. We were always outside . . ." He cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway, there was this old refrigerator on the ground at the edge of their property and I climbed inside to hide. It latched behind me and I couldn’t get out." His voice sounded strangled with the memory alone and I kissed his chest and squeezed him tighter. "They finally found me, but it'd been hours and I thought I would die in there. It was like being buried alive. And then when my father and my brother died the way they did, I felt that feeling all over again and imagined the anguish and terror they must have experienced. Suddenly, small spaces made me feel like I'd lose my mind. Even being in the shower sometimes . . . I have to keep the shower curtain open." He chuckled self-consciously. "It's ridiculous."
I shook my head against the side of his chest. "It's not ridiculous. Not at all."
He brought his arms around me and stroked my arm as he held me and I thought about how he'd been so alone . . . for so long . . .
"Kyland?"
"Hmm?"
"How do you . . . that is, how have you . . . survived all this time? How do you have money for food? Heat?"
He was quiet for a second. "I don't like talking about that, Tenleigh. It makes me feel . . . exposed somehow, I guess."
"You don't have to. It's okay." My words came out in a whispery rush. Oh, Kyland. What do you do? How do you take care of yourself? I kissed his bare skin, letting my lips linger there.
We were both silent for a few minutes. Finally, he said very quietly, "I do whatever I have to do. I collect scrap metal on the weekends. I set traps for muskrats and rabbits and sell them or eat them if I have to. I've collected bottle caps . . . whatever I have to do, that's what I do. Mostly I'm fine. Sometimes I even have a little money for electricity. Sometimes I don't. The end of the month is always the hardest, when I've paid the bills I can and don't have anything left."
I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't cry.
He had just shared a personal part of his heart with me. I knew better than anyone that the things you did to survive were the most personal of all—the fight to live would humble you in ways you didn't ever want anyone else to know about. Because sometimes it was unspeakable. Sometimes it was ugly and shameful and beautiful and courageous all at once. And he'd just given me some of that. I felt sad, horrified, anguished for him, but I felt deeply grateful, too. I squeezed him tighter. "I think you're amazing," I said, "and so very brave."
I put my hand on his cheek and said very seriously. "We were never just friends."
He sobered. "I know."
I smiled. "But you are good at that."
He nuzzled his head into my neck. "I know."
I pushed at him and he chuckled. "I'm just kidding."
"No, you're not."
"Okay, I'm not."
I went serious. I didn't like to think about how he'd gotten so good at that. A ball of red-hot jealousy was burning in my chest and I felt like throwing things again.
"Come here," he said, pulling the blankets over himself and holding them open for me to slide inside next to him. I did. He spooned into me as he pulled the blankets up over us. I could feel his arousal pressing against my ass. I wiggled into him and he hissed. I reached behind me to stroke him, but he held my hand against my hip. "Let me just hold you," he said into my ear.
"But you—"
"Let me hold you," he repeated.
I paused, but relaxed back into his hard chest. "Have you," I bit my lip, "held other girls like this?" I dared to ask. I held my breath, waiting for his answer. I so desperately wanted just one part of him that he hadn't shared with another girl.
"No," he said quietly. "Just you." I relaxed again, joy filling my chest. He brought his arm around me and pulled me even closer. He was warm and big and I melted into him, feeling safe and protected and so very, very comfortable. I sighed and he kissed my shoulder. "Sleep, little spitfire," he whispered.
We were both quiet for a few minutes and I wondered if he'd fallen asleep.
"I won't regret this when you leave," I whispered.
For a minute there was only the sound of the wind outside the window. And then he said very softly, "Neither will I."
I fell into a peaceful sleep and when I woke to Kyland's hand running lazily between my legs in the middle of the night, I sighed and opened my eyes, watching the gently falling snow through the window next to his bed. He brought me to orgasm and then I returned the favor, stroking him until he panted and groaned out his own release, calling my name into the darkness of the room.
In the deep of the night, I heard what sounded like choking sounds and I woke up tangled with Kyland, his skin clammy and his muscles tense. "Kyland," I whispered, shaking him slightly. He startled awake.
"You were dreaming."
He sucked in a big breath.
"Yes."
"What was it about?" I stroked my fingers through his hair.
He paused, but then answered me. "Them. Down there, buried alive under the earth. I dream of them sometimes. And it feels like I'm choking."
I pressed myself closer to his body and wrapped my arms around him, holding him tightly. "I'm sorry."
He exhaled a loud breath. "They lived for three days down there before the oxygen was gone. Three days."
I hadn't known that. I knew there was a rescue effort, and I knew when they found the men, they were all dead, but I hadn't known they'd been able to tell they had lived for three days. I shivered, imagining what that must have been like.
"Is that why you have—"
"Claustrophobia?" He paused. "Partly. When I was about seven, my brother and I were playing hide-and-seek in the woods next to the Privens' house. We were always outside . . ." He cleared his throat and continued. "Anyway, there was this old refrigerator on the ground at the edge of their property and I climbed inside to hide. It latched behind me and I couldn’t get out." His voice sounded strangled with the memory alone and I kissed his chest and squeezed him tighter. "They finally found me, but it'd been hours and I thought I would die in there. It was like being buried alive. And then when my father and my brother died the way they did, I felt that feeling all over again and imagined the anguish and terror they must have experienced. Suddenly, small spaces made me feel like I'd lose my mind. Even being in the shower sometimes . . . I have to keep the shower curtain open." He chuckled self-consciously. "It's ridiculous."
I shook my head against the side of his chest. "It's not ridiculous. Not at all."
He brought his arms around me and stroked my arm as he held me and I thought about how he'd been so alone . . . for so long . . .
"Kyland?"
"Hmm?"
"How do you . . . that is, how have you . . . survived all this time? How do you have money for food? Heat?"
He was quiet for a second. "I don't like talking about that, Tenleigh. It makes me feel . . . exposed somehow, I guess."
"You don't have to. It's okay." My words came out in a whispery rush. Oh, Kyland. What do you do? How do you take care of yourself? I kissed his bare skin, letting my lips linger there.
We were both silent for a few minutes. Finally, he said very quietly, "I do whatever I have to do. I collect scrap metal on the weekends. I set traps for muskrats and rabbits and sell them or eat them if I have to. I've collected bottle caps . . . whatever I have to do, that's what I do. Mostly I'm fine. Sometimes I even have a little money for electricity. Sometimes I don't. The end of the month is always the hardest, when I've paid the bills I can and don't have anything left."
I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't cry.
He had just shared a personal part of his heart with me. I knew better than anyone that the things you did to survive were the most personal of all—the fight to live would humble you in ways you didn't ever want anyone else to know about. Because sometimes it was unspeakable. Sometimes it was ugly and shameful and beautiful and courageous all at once. And he'd just given me some of that. I felt sad, horrified, anguished for him, but I felt deeply grateful, too. I squeezed him tighter. "I think you're amazing," I said, "and so very brave."
