Setting Fire to the Stars (a MM Sci-Fi Romance)

Chapter 9: Confrontation

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Lauren
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"Wake up."

A breath of morning air filled my lungs as my eyes snapped open. Radiant daylight streamed across the grey surface of the ceiling, colors dancing over my face where the sun caught on drops of rain on the windows. The smell of bacon and seasoned eggs lingered in the room and my empty stomach rumbled with hunger.

Obviously, this wasn't my school dorm room. A throbbing pain in my side drew my attention. Touching the area around my ribs gingerly, a sharp grunt of pain left me feeling drained.

"Shit—" I hissed through clenched teeth. Carefully, I sat myself upright to find myself seated in a leather chair. My insides ached as though I'd been steamrolled by a truck.

"Ah, he lives," came a melodic tenor near my right-hand side.

Annoyance prickled across my skin as I already guessed who it was. Sure as the dawn, Wyatt stood wearing fresh clothes, the brown suspenders and slacks reminding me of my old English teacher. I noticed that the man always managed to dress well, even in the midst of an alien apocalypse. Still, the argument we had the night before grated on my patience.

Speaking of last night, all the memories from the past two days abruptly flooded to the forefront of my mind and my head spun in a swivel to the large bed where I'd last seen Peter lying with a fever. The bed was empty, the sheets made up as though he had never been there. An unstoppable wave of fear surged through me, followed quickly by fury.

Chucking the blanket from my body, I leaped out of the chair and clutched a fistful of Wyatt's shirt. The blond tried to shove me off, but I still managed to drag him down to my height. My blood pounded loudly in my ears, anger stealing all rational thought and weighing down the stone lodged in the pit of my stomach.

"Where is he?" I growled, crushing his crisp dress shirt between my fingers. "If you've touched even one hair on his head, I swear—"

"Lauren."

The deep voice turned my gaze to the man standing at the top of the stairs, a gasp stealing all the air from my lungs.

Peter stood there in a navy blue shirt and jeans, his white sneakers exchanged for a pair of brown boots. The top was a tad too tight, the short sleeves molding to the defined muscles of his upper arms and torso. Instead of his usual slicked-back style, his raven hair had been swept to one side, damp ends falling just shy of his brows, appearing freshly washed. Peter's eyes appeared clear and focused today, with no sign of the illness from yesterday. In fact, they carried within their depths a kind of calm weight.

My heart instantly leapt up into my throat. Jesus, he looked incredible. Why did he always have to look like the poster model for Abercrombie & Fitch? Didn't the man know he could give me a heart attack?

"I'm fine. You can let him go," he assured me with an amused smirk.

My lips parted, my grip easing on Wyatt's shirt. With an indignant huff, the accosted blond tore himself out of my grasp and stepped out of reach, smoothing out the wrinkles with a scowl.

"So much for gratitude," he scoffed, backing towards the stairs.

I couldn't spare Wyatt a response, all of my attention was held captive by the man in front of me.

Peter's complexion was so much better than before, the weariness in his face had all but vanished. That burning knot of anxiety taking up residence in my chest finally deflated like a burst balloon.