Page 77 of Blood Moon
He scanned his low-lit room, flashes of light coloring the dark green plants, the spines of worn books, those encased maps. A candle there on the counter, the wax melted around the flame. He slid off the bed and stood with a look of contemplation. “Sure,” he said. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
His two-seater wouldn’t even comfortably fit a quarter of him. “I’m not making you sleep on that thing.”
“I’ve slept in worse spots. I’ll be fine.”
“No.” I folded my arms like a child. “This is your room, and I insist.”
He scratched at the fuzz on his face. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, and to be fair, we’ve shared the bed before. Even if itwasan accident.”
Julian’s face flushed, and he glanced at the floor, a smirk creeping in. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s what I want,” I said, and I watched his throat bob in the faint light. “I do have a request, though.” He slid his hands into his pockets, leaned in my direction. “Can I borrow a shirt to sleep in?”
“Gods,” he mumbled, and he snickered. “You ask for a lot,” he said, flipping on a light switch and shuffling to his dresser. He pulled out a shirt and threw it at me. It landed on my face.
I bit my lips with a scowl. Took a measured breath. “Turn around,” I said, motioning with my finger.
“You’re welcome,” he groaned, doing as I said. “But it’s not like you haven’t already seen me naked.”
I scoffed as I removed my shirt. “First off, that was circumstantial. Second, I’m not naked.”
“And you not being naked makes it worse?”
I stood, took off my shirt and jeans before folding both items and placing them on the arm of the couch. “Dude, I know you’re not arguing with me aboutthis,” I said, pulling his shirt on and climbing into bed.
“It’s not an argument; I’m just trying to point out the fact that your math isn’t math-ing.”
My response was launching a pillow at his head. It plopped toward the floor, and I folded over in laughter. “All done,” I said, but Julian was already turning around, propelling the pillow in my direction.
I blocked it with my hands and threw it back in a fit of laughter. It wouldn’t have been so funny, but Julian’s face—the way his brows curved in and his mouth opened in confusion and excitement—took the wind out of me. Then it was the way he grew annoyed at my laughing, a reaction that only caused me to laugh even harder. My stomach squeezed, and tears streamed down my face. After a few more rounds of throwing the pillow back and forth, he waved his hands in defeat and blew out the candle behind him.
“It wasn’t that funny,” he growled.
“You should have seen your face. You were so mad.”
“I was annoyed. There’s a difference.”
“Sure,” I said, and I smirked, slipping under the blankets, close to the wall.“Sure.”Julian looked exasperated, and he released a very long, very deep sigh before he tugged off his shirt. I pressed my lips together, hiding my mouth with the edge of the blanket as I beheld his sculpted torso and chest. There beneath his navel was a V that stopped at the band of his boxers.
He pushed his hair back. “What?” he questioned, turning around to remove his jeans and pull on a pair of cotton shorts.
“Nothing.” The word was muffled by the blanket. Then, “You’re not gonna cover all that with a shirt?”
“I get hot when I sleep.” He shifted toward the light switch. “Would you prefer I wear a shirt?”
I bit down on the joke I wanted to deliver. Sleeping beside him shirtless would be insufferable and much too distracting. Realizing this, Julian pulled on a band tee, turned on the fan, and flipped off the light.
“And I thought you were tired,” he murmured, climbing in next to me and lying on his back. He stared at the ceiling.
“Burst of energy, I guess.” Though, at the mention of it, I already felt the exhaustion seeping in. After a few seconds, Julian moved to his side, facing me. Moonlight brushed his face through the slits in the blinds. “Thanks,” I whispered, and when our arms touched, I found Julian’s hand. “For putting up with my nonsense. For letting me stay. For being a friend.”
“It’s one of the best days I’ve had in a long time,” he said.
My fingers traced his arm, even when I knew I should probably refrain. “Why a fern?” I asked, brushing the leaves of his tattoo.
He watched my fingers, muscles constricting with the sweep of my nails. “They remind me of my mom. It was her favorite plant. We’d transport them from the woods, bring them home, and replant them in her garden.” He’d spoken it from a place that seemed far away from where we lay.
