His lips trail down my neck, sending shivers all over.
"I love looking at you," he breathes, brushing the hair off my shoulders. "Will you let me look at you?"
My heart hammers, a wild thing seeking his. "Yes."
So he does. And I feel it. For a long...
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F O X
Sleep is a luxury. It's for people who've found answers. But doctors don't sleep; they wait. They wait for a pager to sound, for the next emergency. They live between awake and dead, persisting on adrenaline and caffeine.
I'm already good at it. Flawless, really.
My room helps. It's a box of glass and grey. Big windows, floor-to-ceiling overlooking the nightlife of Goldwen. My bed's cold, untouched. I wash the sheets once a month, but it's pointless since I sleep on top of the covers.
There's a bag of jellybeans on my white nightstand. A small rainbow in the room, the only hint of colour. They're unopened. They've been unopened for over ten years.
You'll find that pain lingers in the details. In the unopened packs. Behind the photos in frames. In the places you won't look. You'd rather die than feel that.
I get up, pulling on a random GoldwenU hoodie on my desk chair. It's Jed's geology department one. Smells like copper ions.
I open my door and pad into the dim living room. Cam's chaos is everywhere. A pile of clothes slung over the arm of the couch, a half-open textbook on the coffee table, a half-full shaker of pre-workout, and beside it, and an empty can of Kick. Her neon sneakers are kicked off in opposite directions, one halfway under the piano up a step near the balcony window.
I could sweep it all up and wipe the slate clean. I could bring the building to the ground and start over.
I sigh, head to the kitchen, grab a glass, and fill it. It's tap water, cold and metallic, nothing remarkable, but the drops trailing chilled down my chin wake me up. I start to feel real again.
Wind rumbles the apartment building, and I remember.
People don't tell you that memories are invasive. Sneaky, smirking things. There's one that's been on a loop in my head for years. A stormy night when I was four. Lightning flashes so bright they split the sky in two. I crept out of bed, clutching that stupid lamb doll, my fingers white-knuckled around its worn-out neck.
My parents were in the living room watching the Pittsburgh Steelers win another game. Football was religion, and my father needed something to pray to. He called me over, told me to stop sniffling like a kicked dog. I crawled between him and Mom with her pregnant belly, sinking into that little island of warmth they made.
Nothing could touch me when I was wedged between them. Not the world, not the weather.
People ask why I love storms now. They think it's some kind of thrill-seeking or a need to tempt fate. I want the storms because they're the only thing that brings it back.
Across the living room, the Christmas tree flickers and glows, white lights twinkling like they're trying to wake up. The presents underneath are haphazardly stacked. Cam's and Jed's handy work earlier today. Camila's so into the holidays she bawled watching It's a Wonderful Life last night. Jed had taken a photo instead of trying to help.
