Page 82 of Ladybirds

“It’s not... proper.”

She blinks. “Proper. You are worried about what’s proper?” When he remains stubbornly silent, she chokes on a laugh. “Really? This is the line you won’t cross?”

“I resent that. I’ve been nothing but a gentleman.”

She shakes her head, filling the glass under the tap. “You’ve been stalking me the past year and living in my apartment rent free.” Three quarters full, she turns the water off. “We’re practically—” Dating, she thinks. Thankfully, her mind catches it before her mouth can say it. “Roommates.”

He catches her almost-slip, though—gaze lowering to her lips. “Oh,” he breathes, more distracted than boastful. “I think we may be a touch more than that.” He meets her eyes, eyebrows raised. “Wouldn’t you say?”

The heat crawls up her neck, but she refuses to look away. She does shove the glass of water into his hands, though. “Then you won’t have a problem using the bed.”

Seth scoffs, a frown turning his mouth. “I will not have you sleeping on the couch or, heaven forbid, the floor.” He brings the glass of water up to his lips.

“Well,” she says, watching the way the muscles in his throat work as he drinks, “we could share.”

He chokes.

Sara pats his back firmly, trying to ignore the heat and feel of his skin against her open palm.

“Cruel,” he wheezes. “You’re bloody cruel.”

She shrugs, averting her eyes. “Well, those are your options.”

“You’re... you’re not serious?”

Heat pricks her cheeks. “Stop looking at me like that. It’s sharing a mattress not, you know.”

“It’s even more improper than your previous suggestion. What on earth makes you think—”

“You’re greedy,” she challenges, arms crossed under her chest. “You said so yourself.”

His eyes drop to her mouth distractedly. “Yes, you cruel thing. There are things I want desperately, but that doesn’t mean I deserve them.”

“Ok… couch it is, then. Let me just grab a pillow—”

He grasps her wrist, stopping her before she can leave. His hold is gentle, but she can see the force in which he’s grinding his teeth in the straining line of his jaw.

“Change your mind?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

“Yes.” The look he pins her with is more exasperated than heated. “I’ve decided to take it back. You’re not Lizzie. You’re the bloody goblin.”

Her mouth purses, a small effort to hide her smile. Considering the glare he’s giving her, she’s failing. Miserably. Her hand slides into his, fingers curling against his palm. “Come on. Goblin’s tired.”

He grumbles under his breath, but accepts her help.

On his back, he lies at the very edge of the mattress; his body so stiff, Sara can practically feel it from the other side of the bed.

She sighs, turning towards him. “You know, this really isn’t as big a deal as you’re making it out to be.”

He glances at her, a brief moment of connection, before he goes back to staring at the ceiling. “For you, perhaps. The last time I shared a bed—” He cuts himself off, eyes darkening. “Well, it was a very, very long time ago.”

Blinking, Sara shifts her weight onto her elbow so she can better see his face. “Wait. Is that why you’re being so weird? You’re worried about being out of practice? Because that’s not what’s happening here.”

“How is it you manage to misinterpret nearly everything I say?” he mutters, as much disbelief as irritation pulling at his lips. “Truthfully?”

“How else was I supposed to interpret it?” she asks, settling into her pillow—her body facing his. “Isn’t ‘share a bed’ old time talk for sex?”

A muscle in his jaw jumps, his hand reaching up to cover his eyes. “Yes, but I was quite hoping you would know better than to think I would mean it that way.”

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