Beside

24 - sentry

"Fox, why do we have toes? They don't seem important."

"For counting when we run out of fingers."

"Oh... I don't like that."

ｃｈｒｉｓ

Oh, it was a nice, nice dream, but it's well over now.

I wake slowly, soft and warm, the air thick with pine and something... familiar. My lashes flutter as I blink into the hazy light. It's quiet, the hush after a storm.

This isn't my bed. This is silk and velvety smooth. This is all grey and neat and perfect.

I shift under the covers. My chest aches buried somewhere deep, just out of reach. I breathe in again, and the smell—god, it's everywhere. Him. It smells like Fox. I smell like Fox.

The window blinks slowly. The glass has eyelashes, fluttering open and closed. It's waiting for something, but I don't know what.

I pull the blanket up to my chin, my heart skipping slightly. What happened?

The fire. The smoke. The friends. My head had been pounding, every heartbeat sending sharp, painful cracks through my skull. The dizziness had swallowed me like a dark shadow monster yawning wide.

Did we...? No. My body isn't sore, not in the way it usually is after sex, that beautiful soreness that lingers each time. Now, nothing. I'm not hungover, either, just stiff. Cold. And hungry.

My bra is still on. And my pants. My sweater... I glance around the room, my gaze landing on a folded heap of pink on the desk chair. My sweater, a bright wave in a sea of grey.

Last night... God, my head was hurting. So badly. I just wanted...

The ensuite door creaks open. I sit up, eyes wide as Fox walks in, fresh from the shower, a white towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, dark tendrils falling across his forehead, and steam curls around his shoulders. He catches my stare, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"We didn't have sex, Chris. I studied all night." He gestures to the pile of anatomy notes scattered on the floor beside the bed.

I blink, my face flushing. "Oh... okay."

But that doesn't answer the real question. Why am I here? I never sleep in his room. I always leave. Even that one time he carried me out (my legs were too shaky), it was just to my own bed. And he left right after. But I'm under his blankets. And they're amazing. And they smell like him.

Fox moves toward his dresser, his bare feet quiet on the carpet. "You were sick, said you didn't want to be alone." He pulls open a drawer, but my eyes stay glued to his back, the way his muscles shift. "Headache, dizziness, pallor. You're fine now, though."

I'm quiet for a moment, the ache in my chest tightening. "Thank you."

After pulling on grey sweats, he tugs a black tee over his head, the fabric catching on his damp skin.

I should tell him—who I am, and why I get headaches sometimes. Is that why I got that headache? Lying by omission? Yeah, it's eating at me. A parasite slithering inside my stomach, eating all my food because I don't deserve it.

Wait. That's a tapeworm. I don't think I have a tapeworm. I hope I don't have a tapeworm.

I bite my lip, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, the guilt rising up again like smoke.

I stay silent. And now it's a selfish decision for a completely different reason.

Fox catches my eye, his brow furrowing as he tugs his shirt down. "Are you still dizzy?"