Nate. It was as if a little world of its own existed in his arms. A world where she could press her face against his chest and cry very, very hard without feeling like an absolute ninny.
Which is exactly what she did.
Until, finally, her sobs quieted, leaving her head aching and her eyes puffy. Of course, with the ability to stop crying came the ability to feel embarrassment like never before. Hannah promptly descended, therefore, into the deepest pit of mortification known to humankind.
“Oh, God,” she mumbled, pulling away. “I am so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Nate let her escape the soft little haven he’d created, but he didn’t release her completely. She was still sort of sitting in his lap, and frankly, she didn’t feel inclined to move.
Even though she absolutely should.
“It’s good to cry,” he said. “When you told me you never cry, I was worried.”
She huffed out a snotty sort of laugh. “Worried.”
“Yeah. Crying is important. But I know you’re shy.”
“I am not shy.”
“You are. You can only cry in secret.” He put an arm around her and settled deeper into the sofa cushions. Somehow, Hannah’s treacherous head allowed itself to rest on his shoulder. Oh, the shame. The indignity. The betrayal!
“Next time you need to cry,” Nate said calmly, “tell me. And we’ll do that again. That was okay, wasn’t it?”
“You are being absolutely nonsensical.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” His head had fallen back against the sofa and his eyes were closed. She made out the solid line of his jaw, the broad softness of his mouth, those impossibly black lashes resting against his too-pale skin. He’d always been white as a sheet, but she was starting to worry he might be anaemic.
Although, if he were anaemic, he wouldn’t have so much… muscle. Would he? Hannah wasn’t sure. She’d have to Google it. And make lots of steak for dinner.
“Hey,” he said suddenly, as if a thought had struck him. “You’re not naked!” His hand had somehow wound up under her cardigan, resting against her pyjama-clad hip.
She blinked. “Did you think I was?”
“Under the cardigan. Yeah.”
“Seriously? All this time, you thought I was naked?”
“I mean, I tried not to think about it,” he said wryly.
“Oh, dear God.”
“Don’t fuss. How the hell do you wear this thing and pyjamas? It’s hot as fuck in this house.”
“I run kind of cold,” she said. “And even if I didn’t, I couldn’t just roam around in shorts.”
“God forbid,” he muttered. “I, for one, have never seen a thigh before. If I did, I might go mad with lust.”
She snorted. “Not likely.”
For a moment, his eyes opened. The moonlight filtering through the window gleamed off of his pale gaze, and she thought she saw something… inconvenient.
Electrifying.
“You know,” she forced herself to say, “you should probably put me down.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s dark. And it’s nighttime. And I’m drunk. So it doesn’t count.”
“What doesn’t count?”
His eyes slid shut again, freeing her from that icy, exhilarating trap. “Wanting,” he said softly. Too softly.
She waited for a moment, assuming that he’d finish his sentence. Or, you know, say something that made the least bit of sense. Something that didn’t make her pulse rush heavily in her ears and pound tauntingly between her thighs.
But he didn’t. And the minutes stretched into true silence. Just as she was telling herself he couldn’t possibly have fallen asleep, Nate snored. It was more like a little snuffle, really, one that reminded her of a dreaming dog, but she felt better calling it a snore. She nudged him gently, and he snored again. Apparently, he was not waking up.
So, with an embarrassing level of reluctance, Hannah clambered off his lap. Then she pulled the curtains shut, shoved his massive body into a vaguely horizontal position, and draped her huge cardigan over him like a blanket.
A half-blanket, perhaps.
When she left, she closed the door behind her very gently, and definitely didn’t look back.
12
Zach: Glad u exist
Nate: Same.
Nate woke up the way people did in nightmares. Those realistic, emotional nightmares that revolved around some sort of anxiety; like he was fifteen again, and he actually gave a shit about school, and he’d overslept on exam day.
But as he bolted up into a sitting position and squinted, bleary-eyed, at his surroundings, several facts became painfully apparent.
He was no longer fifteen, or young enough to binge drink without facing the consequences.
Those consequences were fucking vile. They included a headache so sharp that his vision was blurred and a tongue that felt like