Kiss Off

Chapter 7

Sleep comes gently, drawing me to it like a hypnotic dream. Fear releases me. Worry evaporates. Pain sinks into oblivion. I'm a piece of driftwood, entirely at the whim of the lazy waters beneath me. I feel peace and I let it hug me into a deep slumber.

Waking up, though, is an entirely different experience. My mind is racing, heart panicked enough to jump through the crevices between my ribs. Only thoughts of my family circle through my conscious and I find myself jolting upward, a cry yanking itself from my lips as every muscle in my body protests.

I expect Bryson to step in and try to calm me, but my shriek is met with silence. Glancing to my right, I find that he's still passed out, his torso contorted in an odd position since he must have slumped over in his sleep. Maneuvering myself in front of him, I do my best to carefully push him back up against the wall, and I let out a breath of relief when I hear him groan in resistance.

"Hey," he whispers roughly, stealing my attention away from getting him comfortable only to find his eyes on me. His face is directly in front of mine, but it's only when he lets out an unsteady breath and I feel it graze my lips that I realize just how close we are.

"Hi," I whisper back, surprised I'm able to find my voice. I shiver against the chill that lingers in the air, dropping my gaze away from his for just a moment before peering up at him again.

He smiles, and I swear it cracks the darkness of our buried world apart so that light can spill in. It's a smile filled with warmth and hope. I wonder if he can sense that something good is coming. That this won't be the end.

"You okay?" he questions, brows drawing inward as he considers my expression.

"Yeah," I nod, mouth bowing upward into a flustered grin, a hesitant laugh leaving my lips. "Yeah, I'm good."

I glance at him beneath my lashes, fearful that the warmth he'd radiated prior will have sunken back into him, but it hasn't. He's leaned up against the wall, back curved in a way I know can't be comfortable; his cheek is bleeding where a piece of debris must have sliced through his skin; and his dark hair looks nearly gray due to the amount of dust accumulated on each strand. And yet, he looks content. Completely unbothered by his surroundings... mainly because he doesn't even seem to be aware of them.

"There's no need to pretend," Bryson tells me, a knowing smile playing in his gaze. "There is no way you're okay with this." He motions around us and I follow the movement with my eyes, taking in the crumbled mess around us.

I laugh, glancing down at my hands while I breathe out an amused, "yeah," and settle back against the wall beside him.

We don't say anything for a few seconds, but I can feel Bryson watching me in the dark. His attention makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling I'm not used to having around men. I've trained myself to be confident—self-assured—so that I'm never taken advantage of. But something about Bryson makes me feel soft, moldable, exposed. Like he has complete control over my emotions. Just a smile could illuminate my darkness. A laugh could shatter the callouses around my heart. A gentle touch could melt my cold indifference. He has power over me and he doesn't even have a clue.

I wrap my arms around my legs, rubbing as much heat into my body as possible as I stare into the darkness. I'm not sure if it's just the contrast of the deafening roar of the tornado, but somehow the atmosphere down in this old basement feels even more hushed than I'd expect it to. I can hear myself swallow and it's making me insecure. Fear that Bryson can hear my uneven breathing, or the too-fast beat of my heart, makes me wonder if I'm being too transparent with my feelings.

My eyes flicker in his direction when he clears his throat and brings one knee toward his chest so he can rest his forearm on it.

"Being alone," he mutters into the stillness. I crank my head sideways to get a better view of his face, but he doesn't meet my eyes. "That's always been my biggest fear."