Page 68 of Every Broken Thing

So I did. I brushed my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. It cleared some of the fog, but I was so tired now. And hot. It was so hot.

As I left the bathroom, I tugged my shirt up and over my head, dropping it with a soft swish of fabric. Ben made a strange noise in the back of his throat as he straightened from drawing back my blankets.

“What are you doing?” he asked, voice husky.

And oh, I liked that very much.

“I’m hot.” I unbuttoned my jeans, and Ben took a step toward me, hand outstretched as if to stop me. “What?”

“Don’t do that,” he said, almost pleadingly.

“But I’m hot,” I whined.

“I know.” He grimaced. “I mean… shit.”

I fingered the button of my jeans, and Ben watched, cheeks darkening, Adam’s apple leaping.

“You’re cute when you blush. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jesus Christ. Just get in bed.”

“Fine. Geez.” I undid my pants as I crossed the room, shoving my jeans down my legs as I went.

With a grunt, I plopped onto the edge of the bed and tugged my jeans free of my legs. Ben was pointedly looking away, like he was preserving my modesty or something. He was so weird.

I snuggled under my blankets and watched him as he glared at my carpet like it had personally offended him. His jaw worked, teeth grinding. He looked at me, conflict painted all over his face, like he wanted something from me but was unable to take it.

Why didn’t he just ask? I would give him anything.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said as he walked over and placed my phone and keys on the bedside table. “Get some sleep, okay?”

When he stepped back, my hand moved of its own accord, cinching his wrist. “Wait.”

He stopped and cocked his head to the side, waiting. My mouth moved, but I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask. I just didn’t want him to leave.

“Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

My heart plummeted to my stomach as he shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

He was right. Of course he was; it was stupid of me to even ask.

“Okay.” I sniffed and brought my blankets up to my nose. “I just don’t always sleep good.”

“Why don’t you sleep good?” he asked gently.

I peeked out at him from the blanket nest I’d built around my head. “You know why.”

The conflict was back, and he stared down at me for a long time. He shook his head, like he was answering a question that hadn’t been asked. Then his shoulders slumped in defeat, and he said, “Move over.”

Electricity buzzed through me as I did as he asked, and he laid down in the spot where I’d previously occupied. Lying on hisside, he settled his head on the other end of my pillow. Our faces were inches apart, and my body vibrated like a live-wire.

“I don’t sleep good either,” he said, like it was a secret for me to keep safe for him.

“You have nightmares too?”

He said, “Yeah.”

“Do they scare you?”

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