Page 81 of Drawn Together
I take a couple steps back and slip down to the floor. My knees tuck to my chest, and I accept my fate that I could die here. We’ll have to dedicate a pee corner and ration out my groceries and his soup out for the next thirty days. We’ll leave here—crazed hair and black circles under our eyes—and people will marvel at us, wondering how we did it. We’ll be trauma bonded for life, left to live out the rest of our days only taking the stairs from here on out.
“You know, this whole thing is your fault.” His frown is a traitor to his serious tone as it tips up in one corner.
“My fault?” My shriek mixes with a laugh. “How is this possibly my fault?”
“If you hadn’t lied about being sick, then I wouldn’t have come over.”
He’s rage baiting me into a distraction, and I hate how much it’s working.
“What makes you so sure I’m lying about being sick?” I cough again like, ‘see?’ and his smiling frown grows higher.
“You magically got a bug right after you freaked out about us kissing.”
“It wasn’t right after.”
“The next morning, then.”
Well, yeah.
“It feels so much smaller here than usual.” I wrap my arms around my knees, pulling them in closer so I’m nothing but a ball of mixed emotions.
“We’ve been stuck in smaller spaces,” he reminds me, and I’m thrown back to the closet in his apartment, our legs tucked in, and the secret smiles he gave me. Pretty, he whispered and played with my hair, causing the utter downfall of my stability.
I look up and he’s already staring right back at me—a question, I think. My heart is a traitor to my mind, thumping wildly and blood pulsing. My eyes flicker to the bags beside him.
“You said you brought soup?”
“I did.”
I raise a brow, and he sniffs a laugh. “Are we already getting comfortable?”
“Seems like we’ll be here a while.”
“Here, I’ve got an idea.” He stands up and reaches a hand down for me to grab. I stare at hesitantly.
“Do you want to get out?”
I sigh and stand up, wiping my hands on my yoga pants. Fletcher takes off his sweater before bending down in front of me, the back of his head lined up to my waist. Without his sweater, his plain white tee may as well be translucent, each curve and dip of his back and shoulders on display below me.
“What exactly are we doing right now?”
“Get on my shoulders.” He taps the spot, like that will make me want to jump quicker.
“Why?”
“To pass the time.”
“Huh?”
“To see if you can see anything through the ceiling tile, Flora.”
Oh, right.
His palm is held out to me, and while I can’t see his face, I feel him suck in a breath when I let my fingers slide against his. I raise one thigh to his left shoulder and the other to the right.
He groans beneath me, light—almost a whimper.
“Am I hurting you?” I adjust my thighs so they don’t cover his ears.
