Even Heroes Have Scars

[42] Comfortable With Thunder

Demi's P.O.V.

Ansley was changing in my room and I was in the bathroom. Even though we were mostly dry, I lent her underwear and a sports bra. What a coincidence that we were the same cup size. How did I even have a size? My boobs were mosquito bites, sometimes big, sometimes small! The underwear was probably too big because she was skinny and I wasn't, but it was better than wearing a wet bathing suit. I also gave her sweatpants and another band t-shirt from when I was eighteen.

After I had changed into my own clothes of sweatpants and a t-shirt, I quietly opened my door without thinking and immediately shut it when I saw Ansley in only sweatpants, no sports bra or shirt on. Her back was facing me when the door opened, but I hoped she hadn't noticed me.

I leaned against the door, breathing in and out slowly as I attempted to steady my heart rate. Once another moment or two passed, I then opened the door. Ansley was dressed, examining a photo I had on my dresser of me on Barney.

She smiled over at me, then brought her focus back to the photos. I crept up behind her and rested my head on her shoulder, my hands clasped around the upper parts of her arms.

"You were cute," she smiled and peaked at me out of her peripheral vision. "You still are, but you know what I mean."

I giggled. "Thanks. I know." She laughed. "Just kidding. Do you have any pictures from when you were a baby?"

"Most of them are with my grandparents on my mom's side because Dawson didn't give a shit and my mom didn't really have any, so... But I think I do have one on my phone," she pulled her phone from the pocket of my sweatpants that she was wearing and scrolled through a punch of photos.

As I watched, I noticed that she had a bunch of pictures of me or of her brother, occasionally a picture of her with Cody or Bailey, or of Cody and whom I guessed was Mark, his boyfriend. My heart leapt every time I saw a picture of myself. She saved pictures of me? Oh my gosh!

She clicked on a picture of a picture of a girl around the age of one or two. It was of herself, holding a flower in front of a rose bush, her white dress flowing out like Cinderella's. She must've taken a picture of a picture that was in a frame.

The first thing I noticed about the picture, though, was the way her eyes popped. They were so translucently blue, like the ocean in the Caribbean, darker around the edges, but magnificent in the middle, as if someone dropped sunlight into them.

She looked over at me, and I looked over at her, staring deep into her eyes.

"You're beautiful," I smiled, moving my hands up to rest on her shoulders. "Adorable, too."

The urge to kiss her charged through my veins. Not a kiss on the cheek or forehead, one on her lips that owned her.

I wanted to know her taste. I wanted to know how her lips would move with mine. I wanted to know if she would cup my face in her hands or wraps her arms around me, or if she would reject me all together. I wanted to know what it was like to call her mine and have her call me hers. I wanted to be hers. And for a moment, I thought maybe she wanted to be mine, too. If only I had the courage.

She blushed, but I could tell she didn't believe me. "Thanks."

"Come on," I let go of her, but then it felt like I needed to feel her touch again after half of a second, so my hand found its way to hers. "Let's go downstairs."

She followed me down the stairs and into the living room. A maid approached us with a tray of mugs filled with her best hot chocolate that tasted like a milk-chocolate Hershey bar melted on your tongue, except milkier than that.