Page 58 of Enemies to Lovers

My heart breaks, and the pieces fall to the floor at his feet. I crouch, running my hand over his spine. He’s damp there, too, sweat collecting at the small of his back. I want to hug him, hold him, take whatever this is away, but I don’t know how.

“What can I do?” I set my free hand on his knee, my knuckle tapping his elbow. “How can I help?”

I’m not completely oblivious to his coping methods, but I haven’t seen them up close. Then again, I haven’t seen him have an attack. My mind scurries around, trying to pull out memories from our schooling together. We have so many to choose from, but I land on something.

Senior year. Biology AP test. Miles paced outside the door, and I watched from my front-row seat inside the classroom.

He babbled under his breath, ticking things off on his fingers. I thought he looked adorable, his hair short… cropped close to his head. He wore a solid black t-shirt that had gotten caught in his front pocket when he slid his phone in there.

He was a nervous test taker; I knew it then as I know it now. It always sort of amused me, since he managed to pass every test with flying colors, even with his leg bouncing the entire time.

But this is different. This isn’t just anxiety—it’s panic. As easy as the practical seemed for him, this one probably feels just as daunting. I feel it some, but not nearly as badly. I’ve studied hard; I know I’ll be spilling out what I know, and that’s all I can do. I’m content and confident, and it hurts my heart he doesn’t feel that same way, because heaven knows he’s brilliant.

His breath cuts harsh through his teeth, lifting his back underneath my hand. He talked about waking up; maybe that’s what he does. He lists his day. I can help with that. “Miles, tell me what you’ve done today.”

His fingers curl, his hair poking through the creases. “You… you need to get in there.”

“Not until you tell me about your morning.” I take a more comfortable position, criss-cross applesauce next to him, firmly planting my ass on the tile. “What happened after you woke up?”

He peeks at me from the small space between his bicep and forearm. I’m happy to see a bit of his soul back in his eyes.

I smile and hope it’s good for him, encouraging, but not patronizing.

Shudders rack his body under my palm, but he mutters, “I… I went to the bathroom.”

The image of his bathroom floats into my mind so easily… the texture of his counter, the smell of the soap.

“After that?” I prod, smoothing my hand over his knee.

“Picked a red shirt.” The smallest of laughs tumbles from his lips.

My lip quirks. “What’s funny?”

“You like pink.” He inhales nice and deep, his exhale less shaky. “It’s as close to pink that I could get.”

My stomach does a somersault, and I hope gymnasts don’t pop from my lips when I speak. “Sounds like you need a pink shirt.”

“Maybe.” He sucks in another breath, letting his head fall back against the wall. He closes his eyes when he exhales. “I said a prayer. After the shirt. I actually knelt down and talked to God.”

“Is that abnormal for you?”

“Not on test days.” His eyes flutter open, and he rolls his head to me. “I want this.”

Prickles cross my spine, tingling through my nervous system. My fingers twitch against his knee, and he grabs hold of them.

“I wantthis.” He nods at our hands, then blows out another long breath. Funny how he’s finding his air while simultaneously stealing mine.

It’s not time for this conversation, and a niggle of worry bites at the backs of my eyes, but he gives my hand a squeeze then turns his gaze to the ceiling.

“I let Hershey outside. There are drool stains on the sliding door. I’ll clean them when I get home today.”

He inhales, exhales, and I follow suit, allowing him to list, to calm, and sitting here until he tells me to go. His knee slides out under our joined hands as he straightens his leg.

“Ate a half a bagel Emerson didn’t finish. She put strawberry cream cheese on it. Not my favorite, but I ate it anyway.”

The corner of my mouth twitches. I like his list. I like getting these tidbits. And I like that his voice evens the more he talks, his breathing slowing to purposeful breaths. I scoot to face him, my feet bumping against his hip, and I hug my legs to my chest, resting my chin on my knees.

“What cream cheese do you prefer?”

---