Fragile Little Things ✓

25 unfair

I WAKE UP EARLY, but I don’t feel tired. I feel . . . awake. Alert. There’s some sunlight filtering through a gap in my curtain, and I become acutely aware of the weight of a hand around my torso, and slow breathing behind me. Jem. His cologne — hints of spiced wood and fresh soap — hits me anew, sending my heartbeat into a frenzied rush.

“Jem?”

He doesnʼt stir. Itʼs an admittedly poor attempt to wake him up, because my voice comes out in just a whisper, but really, I donʼt want to wake him up.

Steadying my breathing, I gingerly place a hand over his hand that’s slung around my torso — he never moved it throughout the night, even in his sleep, somehow, and the thought makes my chest ache a little. I tug his arm off me a little, waking up.

In the dim morning light of my room, and with his eyes closed, Jem looks more peaceful than I’ve ever seen him. He always has a steady look of calm about him, but even then, there’s this sort of . . . mellowed agitation set between his brows that isn’t there now. There’s a slight warm flush to his cheeks, and I notice that his lashes are the lightest shade of brown and that his lips are fuller than usual in the morning.

A small smile finds its way to my own lips, and I realize, quickly, that I’m just sitting on my bed, staring at him. Like a creep. And, honestly, I have few reservations about it. I wish I could do it longer, but if he woke up suddenly, I would melt from embarrassment.

Instead, I tiptoe off the bed and head to the bathroom. I brush my teeth and take a quick shower, and when I get back out, I peek inside my room, but Jem’s still asleep, so I make some coffee for myself in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, thereʼs rustling, and Jem emerges from my bedroom. My heart floats to the top of my throat. In the dark, I couldn’t see him clearly, but now I can. His hair has grown out a little, like he skipped his weekly buzzcut, and it’s messed up a little, sticking up in different directions. His face is slightly puffy, but somehow, he pulls it off.

His jacket is slung on one of our bar stools, which means that heʼs just wearing a shirt, leaving his inked arms on display.

It’s fascinating — seeing him this way. It’s almost . . . domestic and it makes my breath hitch a little.

Jem narrows his eyes a little, trying to read me from my facial expression.

“You good?” he asks, and his voice is so raspy and rough at the edges that I buffer for a second.

“Yes, um—” I swallow, nodding a bit too enthusiastically. “Yeah. Thanks for . . . um — thanks for staying.”

My cheeks warm when I remember whining about my period to him, the memory of his hand splayed on my stomach is now burned into my mind. The cramps have calmed down now, and a warm shower soothed my lower stomach muscles, making me feel miles better.

Jem just nods like my words don’t fully sink in as he blinks the tiredness away, running an inked hand through the hair at the base of his neck. “You got an extra toothbrush I can borrow?”

I nod. “There’s one under the sink.”

He disappears into my bathroom, and I decide to make some hot chocolate. For a brief second, the memory of Jem stealing my marshmallows the night we first met flashes in my mind, bringing a smile to my face. I was such a brat to him that day, and looking back, he wasn’t anything but polite. I add a few extra mini marshmallows in.

Jem’s voice brings me back to reality. “Is this for me?”

I glance up to see him motioning towards the hot chocolate. When I mutter a brief “yeah”, he walks over to the kitchen island and grabs the mug, lifting it to his lips before gulping it down in seconds. He drags his gaze back down to me. “You got more of these marshmallows?”