The Brightest Star in a Constellation

54: Sunshine

☆ Evan ☆

I turn over in a daze, reaching for the bedsheets. The feeling of the satin sheets hugs my body. I drag them closer to my neck and grumble under my breath when I hit a snag.

I pull again, a little harder this time. Peter's gentle snoring subsides for about three seconds when he flips over, relinquishing the blanket.

Although we start on opposite sides of the bed, the space between us is effectively breached. I was worried he'd get the wrong impression if we shared a bed, but he didn't. Even after I brought up my feelings on asexuality, he just shrugged and told me we'd take things as slowly as I needed to.

And I feel safe with him. And not just with having boundaries, but emotionally safe.

Light spills in from the window. I turn my eyes to the ceiling and trace the lines in the tiles, multiplying the length times the width.

Peter, still asleep, nestles into my chin. His legs hang off the bedside, twisting through the sheets. He smells faintly of spearmint and coconut aftershave. I breathe it in, all of it, and I try to photograph a memory.

I toss my arm over him and lean my cheek against him. My eyes seal shut. I could stay like this for as long as he allows me to—for as long as I hold him here.

Listening to the rise and fall of his breathing, I manage to fall asleep for a while. When I wake up, I know he's awake, based on the lack of methodical snores.

I open my eyes a smidge. My vision doubles with the proximity, although he isn't facing me. He slides out of the bed silently and descends to the kitchen.

I stretch out across the bed, popping my knuckles one by one. Groaning, I pull myself out from underneath the sheets and fix my hair in the mirror. The unruly strands curl around my ears as I twist them.

When Peter comes back into the room, he's carrying a plate decorated with blue stripes and bordered with flowers. A stack of waffles and strawberries sit atop it.

"Your hair looks fine," he says, and somehow it sounds like, Good Morning.

I smile, fiddling with the hem of the pyjama shirt he let me borrow. Printed on it is a fading shadow of a roller coaster against a contrasting blue and red background—from an amusement park. He must have visited a few years ago, by the date written at the top. I take a bite of the waffle and the decadence of the burnt edges mixed with melting butter and chocolate chips is enough to make me second-guess his cooking skills. "These are fantastic."

"Those are from a box," he points out. "You saw me pick it up. I only had to put them in the toaster, and somehow—I couldn't quite get that right, either, so don't compliment me."

"Too late." I shove the rest of the waffle into my mouth, licking the chocolate residue from my fingers. "I already did, and I'm not taking it back."

He's looking at me. More specifically, at my lips. My heart drums in my ears like it always seems to do around him. It's this desire—he makes me dizzy. In the way a carousel ride would be like, although I've never been on one. It moves in a blur, when my head spins and I look back to find my body has left the ground. It's so fast, and yet it isn't fast enough—I don't know how to make sense of this passage of time.