Page 40 of Save the Game

“Nothing crazy, I just sometimes have these dreams about not being able to move.”

I’m glad for the dark room, helping conceal my facial expressions. I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out why he might have nightmares like that, and to not like his arms being held down; the implication makes my blood boil. I could never grasp how perfectly normal people might be driven to murder, but I understand it now. I understand it perfectly.

“All right,” I tell him, and I think I do an admirable job of concealing the way I went from zero to pissed off just now. God knows I don’t want him to hear it and think I’m angry at him.

“So, sorry, if that happens. It’s not every night, but with my luck I’ll probably do something embarrassing tonight, if only because I’m with you,” he laughs, the sound puffing out across my chest. I frown, tilting my head until my face is resting on his hair.

“You always apologize to me for things that don’t need apologizing for. Don’t worry about it—I can promise you that I’m not.”

He laughs again, and scoots closer to me. “We didn’t brush our teeth,” he says, and now it’s my turn to laugh.

“You can, if you want.”

“Mm,” he hums, “but then I’d have to get up. I don’t think our teeth will rot if we miss a night; not like we ate a bunch of dessert.”

“Well, I did,” I tease, and run a finger along his stomach to remind him.

“Oh my god,” he mumbles, face turned into my chest, “disgusting.”

“Full disclosure: I’m going to kiss the shit out of you first thing in the morning.”

He sighs, expansively. “Okay, let’s just go brush them quick.”

“Nope, too late.” I slide a hand up into the hair at the back of his head, and kiss his hair until he turns his face up toward mine and I can get to his mouth. He’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and I’m wishing time could stop because this moment is perfect.

“Sicko,” he says, between kisses, but he makes no move to actually leave the bed and go to the bathroom.

“Do you need to text Marcos the Grouch and let him know you’ll be staying at your boyfriend’s place tonight?” I ask, placing clear emphasis on the word boyfriend and enjoying the way my stomach flutters in response.

“I already told him I’d probably be staying at my boyfriend’s place, so he knows,” Max fires back, and the words have me grinning up into the dark. He was planning on staying over.

“How very forward of you, Maxy.”

He laughs again, and shakes his head. He mutters something under his breath that sounds like idiot, and shifts so that his nose brushes the crook of my neck. It kind of tickles but I bear it because it’s also fucking adorable, the way he tucks his face in. I’d wonder if he could breathe properly, if I couldn’t feel the exhalations against my skin.

“I’m tired,” he says apologetically.

“I bet you are,” I agree, thinking of all the nights where he comes and sees me at the diner and stays well into the early hours of the morning. Something tells me he’s not getting good rest on those nights, even when he goes home to do so.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and I’ve no idea what he’s thanking me for, but I squeeze him to let him know I heard it. I listen to the pattern of his breathing, still coasting my fingers up and down his arm and back as I wait for him to fall asleep.

I can tell the exact moment he does—the weight of his arm becomes heavier across my stomach and his leg slides boneless between mine. He curls toward me, as though blindly seeking contact or warmth, and I wrap my arm more firmly around him in a way I hope his subconscious mind recognizes as safety. It takes me a long time—far longer than it usually would after getting off and snuggling up with a man—to fall asleep with him. I’m nervous that I’ll roll over onto him in the night, scaring the shit out of him; I’m nervous he won’t want to stay over any more.

My nerves and his seem to have been for nothing, though. I wake up in the morning with copper hair in my mouth, and soft open-mouthed snores vibrating my chest as Max continues to sleep. Carefully, I reach up and brush his hair down, leaving my hand resting on the crown of his head. I can feel a damp spot on my chest where he’s drooled a little bit, which I find unexplainably cute. Not only did he make it through the night without waking up, but he clearly slept deep enough to be snoring and drooling. Smiling, I close my eyes and rest my cheek back against his head, waiting for him to wake up on his own.

It’s over an hour later before he does, turning his face into my neck and making groggy moaning noises that make me want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze. I almost wonder if he’s fallen back asleep, until his hand slides up my side and he kisses my throat where his lips are already resting.

“Good morning,” he mumbles, words barely audible.

“Good morning, baby,” I reply, because I’m a fucking sap, and he drooled all over me, and I want to keep him here forever. He adjusts his head so that he can breathe easier, hand rising to touch my face.

“We slept good,” he marvels, fingers tracing my ear. “This is the same position we fell asleep in.”

He sounds incredulous—unable to believe his good fortune. If I thought he would go for it, I’d ask him to stay here every night so that he never missed another hour of sleep in his life.

“We did,” I agree, leaning my face into his touch. “What time do you have class today? I don’t start until late, but I can take you home whenever if you need to get ready.”

“Not until eleven. We’ve got time, right?” He lifts his head to look at me, and that sappy heart of mine expands like a balloon against my ribs. His hair is insane, fluffed up like he got electrocuted, and his eyes are squinted half-shut, as though he’s not awake enough to open them fully.

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