Page 96 of The Exception

I went to my room and checked my wig again in the mirror before climbing beneath the covers. I kept the small lamp on so Graham could find his way but turned and faced the wall, staring at the cracked plaster. My body was exhausted, but my mind was on overdrive. There was no way I was falling asleep now, even if I was tired.

A little while later, the mattress dipped, and the covers shifted as Graham slid into bed. He nudged me. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to?—”

I scooched closer to the edge. “No. It’s fine. It’s a small bed.”

“I’d be surprised if it’s even a full.” He shifted, and it was impossible not to touch. “Did you use my body soap?” He sniffed.

Oh god. I was mortified. And I’d never been more thankful that he couldn’t see my face.

“Did you just sniff me?” I teased, going on the defensive to hide how self-conscious I felt.

“IfI did, it was only to confirm my theory.” He sounded smug.

“Mm-hmm. Sure.” I punched down my pillow—trying and failing to get comfortable. How the hell was I supposed to sleep when he was lying next to me? All I could think about was his smell. The heat radiating off him.

I moved again. Nothing felt right. Either his elbow was jabbing me, or I was about to fall off the bed.

“Jesus. Will you stop moving? Just—” He huffed. “Here.”

I turned so I was facing him.Big mistake.He held out his arm, inviting me to lie on him. His hair was damp, and his expression was soft. How could I resist an invitation like that?

“I don’t want you getting any ideas,” I said, telling myself the same thing.

“Of course not.” He looked almost offended. “Cuddling isn’t in my vocabulary. This is strictly out of necessity. Otherwise, one or both of us will end up on the floor.”

I hesitated a moment, holding his gaze. And then I lay down on his chest. Oh, it was heaven. He was warm and steady, and I relaxed at the sound of his heartbeat.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes. But this isn’t going to bother you? I mean…I know you’re sensitive to textures. And I don’t want to cause you irritation.”

“Oh, I’m irritated all right,” he muttered.

“I can?—”

“No.” He held me tighter to him. “Don’t move. I prefer deep pressure, compression. Most of my issues with texture relate to how clothes and materials feel against my skin. Or if someone’s touch is too light.”

I’d noticed that he seemed to recoil from light pressure, so I tried to avoid it. “Anything else?” I asked, wanting to understand. Wanting to make sure he was comfortable.

“Some foods can be an issue, but it also depends on my bandwidth. If I’m tired or overstimulated, things are more likely to bother me.”

“I can understand that. Sometimes I get overstimulated when there’s a lot of heavy machinery making noise on the property. But if there’s something I can do…” I trailed off, not sure what else to say. Not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “Please tell me.”

“Thanks,” he said. “And thanks for listening without judgment.”

I furrowed my brow. “Why would I judge you for something that’s out of your control?”

“You’d be surprised,” he said.

Understanding dawned on me. “Have other people judged you for your sensitivity to textures?”

He blew out a breath. “Yeah. So, I learned to hide it as much as I could. Otherwise, I risk being labeled as entitled or difficult.”

I pushed up on my elbow, meeting his eyes. “That’s shitty, and I’m sorry you’ve had to deal with that. But you don’t have to hide it with me.”

He was quiet a moment, then said, “Thank you,” in a gruff voice.

“So, the cold bath…”

---