Foreigner

Chapter 35: Twenty-Four Hours

The room is dim, washed in early light that leaks in through the slits of the blinds. Outside, Whittiker breathes in silence. Inside, I'm already awake.

I lie on my back in the top bunk, listening to Christian's slow, even breaths below. One arm dangles over the edge. Leaning over the bunk, I can see him sleeping on his stomach—dark blonde, unruly hair sticking out in all angles, his muscular shoulders and back moving up and down with every breath.

I could let him sleep. I should.

But I don't.

I grab the nearest hoodie from the foot of my bed—his, actually—and drop it right onto his head.

"Mnnph—what the—" Christian flinches awake with a half-snarled grunt, the hoodie caught over his hair. He pushes himself onto his left side, yanks it off, and glares up at me. "Seriously?"

I smirk, already climbing down. "Rise and shine, my friend."

He makes a strangled sound. "Don't call me that when I'm unconscious."

"You're not unconscious anymore."

He groans and flops onto his back dramatically. "Why are you like this?"

"Because it's Saturday." I pull on a sweatshirt. "And I'm taking you on a date."

That makes him blink. Once. Twice.

"A... date."

"Mhm." I toss him his sneakers. "Get dressed. Meet me in the gym."

He watches me like he's trying to read a trap between the lines. But there's no trap. Not today.

"You're weird," he mutters.

"Yeah, but I'm your weird."

I lean down and kiss him on the cheek. No warning. Just a soft press close to the corner of his mouth. He freezes. Then blinks again.

When I pull back, I don't explain. I just grin.

"Don't be late," I say, already walking out the door.

Behind me, there's silence. Then a quiet shuffle of blankets.

¤ ¤ ¤

The gym smells like dust and wood polish, echoing with nothing but our footsteps. The lights are half on, flickering slightly near the backboard. I dribble the basketball lazily, letting the thump-thump of it fill the space.

Christian arrives five minutes late, hair damp and messy from a rushed face wash, hoodie half-zipped, laces untied. He looks like he barely survived the trauma of waking up.

"You're lucky I like you," he mutters.

"Mm," I hum, spinning the ball on one finger. "Debatable."

He snorts and snatches the ball out of my hands. "I'm winning."

"You haven't even stretched yet."

"Don't need to. You're slow."

That earns a raised brow. "You're cocky for someone who's limping half the time."

"I like a challenge."

He dribbles once—sloppy—and I steal the ball straight from under him. Before he can react, I pivot and land a shot from mid-range. It hits the rim, circles once, then drops in.

Christian stares. "That doesn't count. I wasn't ready."

"Sounds like a you problem."

We fall into it after that—shots, steals, rebounds, quick drives. The rhythm returns between us without effort. I dart under his arm; he blocks me with his body. We talk trash, pant like dogs, laugh between plays. Every time I get close enough, I touch him. A brush of fingers here, a hand on his shoulder there. Little anchors to hold onto something I don't want to name.