Page 54 of Someday Not Soon

I’ve stared at him nearly the entire time he’s slept. Squinting my eyes through the darkness to make out his features—the dark stubble of his jaw, that adorable strand of hair that always escapes onto his forehead. The bow of his lips, and the square line of his jaw. All masculine features, with a tenderness beneath it all.

It seems strange to sit here and take him in for so long. But I want to commit every detail of him to my memory. My mind keeps drifting to the years I missed, imagining his face through it all. How did he fare during medical school and residency? Did the fine lines around his eyes come from the stress of it all? Is he truly happy with his life? And most of all, did he actually think about me all this time too?

Once the hard tile begins to hurt and my legs become numb, I gently run my hand through his hair again and whisper, “Hey, can I move you to your room?”

His eyes flutter open, and he rubs them with the heel of his hand, slowly sitting upright. “Shit, yeah, of course. Sorry, I dozed off.”

I stand and reach out my hand to help him up. His movements are sluggish as I pull him to his feet.

I grab his coconut water from the smooth quartz counter and follow him to his room. He collapses onto the edge of the mattress, his eyes heavy with exhaustion,dark circles making his blue eyes stand out even more clearly.

Placing the water on the nightstand, I kneel in front of him. “Are you sure you want me to stay? I won’t be offended if you want to sleep it off alone.”

He pauses, lowering his hands from his face, and when he looks up at me, his messy hair and the raw, vulnerable exhaustion in his eyes hit me right in the gut.

“Don’t leave. Please.” That single please does me in. Leaving isn’t even a remote option now.

“I’ll stay. But tell me what to do. How can I help make life easier for you right now?” I’m not here to take up space, and I don’t want him to feel like he has to entertain me when he’s feeling like this. “I can make you food, clean the kitchen, go grocery shopping?” The words tumble out in a rush. I need to be useful somehow; otherwise, I’ll overthink this situation to death.

He lies back in bed, stretching out his arm in silent invitation, making it perfectly clear where he wants me. “Lay with me.”

“Okay.” My heart beats out like syllables in anticipation, as I scoot into his body. Every inch closer feels like a mile, and when our bodies finally meet mine hums in response.

It’s my natural disposition to overthink and worry about every single action I take. But he dissolves that tension with a single breath, a simple touch. As I settle into the crook of his body, he wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me snugly to his side. My chin rests against the solid plane of his chest, feeling the steadythump of his heartbeat. His broad hand glides up and down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. I came here to comfort him, but somehow, he’s the one providing reassurance, always protective and gentle.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

He exhales slowly, as if testing his own body. “A little better. I think the meds are starting to work.” His eyes find mine. “Thank you for being here.”

“Of course. Although, I didn’t do anything besides offer moral support.”

“Don’t sell yourself short. Your scalp massage skills are impeccable.”

“Think I could add that to my resume?Excels in areas such as head stroking.”

“If I was the one reviewing resumes, it’d be a no-brainer—instant approval. Also, you can’t sayhead strokingwithout raising some eyebrows.”

I burst out laughing, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. The way he looks at me—like I’m his whole entire world—makes my chest tighten.

I’m certain we both feel this ‘friendship’ spiraling out of control faster than a runaway train, barreling down a track that forks into dangerous territory we’ve seen once before. The kind where you fall in love, and someone’s heart is bound to break.

We lie in silence—me curled into a ball at his side, and him holding me tight like I might try to run away. The soft rustle of the sheets and the distant hum of passing cars are the only audible sounds. I’m acutely aware that this is why we can never beonlyfriends.

“I love holding you like this,” he mumbles, half-asleep.

His mouth grazes my head, kissing the top of it before his chest rises and falls with deep, peaceful breaths of sleep.

“I love it too,” I admit in a whisper. He doesn’t even hear me, as he’s passed out beside me.

The admission feels significant, as if we’ve said we love each other.

For as much sleep as grief has stolen from me over the last month, it falls over me easily when I’m with him. I dream of resting on white cotton candy clouds, the length of my body tucked firmly alongside his, pressing and melting together, becoming one. Dreaming, I feel him, hard against my ass.

The warmth of his body and the illusion of sleep strip away all my inhibitions and self-control. My final walls crumble in the protective cocoon of sleep. I press back against him, feeling his hardness through the thin fabric of his sweats, as I rub myself along his length. The rhythm builds, a feverish motion of give and take. I grind; he presses. We move together, lost in the feel of each other.

Suddenly, the warmth is gone, the hardness I’ve been getting off on is absent. The sound of a door closing causes my dream to burst open as the real world seeps back in. I’m lying in his bed, my body overwhelmingly turned on and teetering on the edge of release. If I was at home, I’d finger myself and be finished within seconds. But here, in his space, I can’t bring myself to cross that line.

Trying to ignore my body’s response to whateverraunchy sex purgatory just happened, I leave the bed in search of him. From the doorway of his attached master bathroom, I hear his voice rumble out a string of expletives, followed by a muffled groan. I rush in, concerned he’s getting sick again. “Jude. Are you?—”

---