Never Been Kissed(68)

“Hunt? Is it okay?”

I feel more than hear or see him move deeper into Matty’s room. When he crouches down and gets eye-level with me seated on his son’s bed, a big hand palms my face as he gives me a tired smile.

“Come on. All three of us will fit in my bed.”

I open my mouth to say something but nothing comes out. There should be protests – things like: what do you mean sleep in your bed? Do I look easy to you? and This is too weird. I’m going home. Tough shit, Matty. I shouldn’t be thinking that I don’t have pajamas here, and how lazy I am to go over to my place and get some. I shouldn’t be thinking about sleeping in Hunter’s bed. I should be denying that excited curling sensation in my lower belly with everything I have.

I really just want to be in bed with him – no pressure, no sex, just him and I and Matty wrapped in his sheets, smelling like him – like we belong to his pack or pride. And he belongs to us, too.

I get up, still holding Matty and walk into Hunter’s room, with Hunt trailing behind me. I freeze when he turns Matty’s light off, and the whole apartment is plunged into darkness. Hunter bumps into me from behind, his hands finding my hips, branding me with his touch as he steps around me to turn on the light in his room.

On the far wall by his bed are pictures, tons of pictures all hand-drawn. I see Matty smiling up at me, different versions of Iron an in full suit armour flying in different positions. So many of them stacked on top of one another, edges curling inwards like they’ve been hanging out for a long time, keeping him company.

It hits me then that I don’t think Hunter has many friends. And I wanted to remedy that with my friends and well, that didn’t work out so great, thanks to Tommy, the Russian ass.

“Wow,” is all I can manage. Matty sniffles in my shoulder, head moving to look at the wall with me. “They’re... they’re beautiful.” If I look more closely, darker pictures dominate the wall – I see a lot of tombstones but don’t concentrate on the words engraved on them. I see dark outlines and stark contrasts – purity in the movements he’s drawn, despair so easily seen on the paper. My throat clogs up, and I hold Matty closer to my chest.

“There you are, Sera,” Matty whispers, while I hear drawers banging behind me. His arm extends outward, pointing me in the right direction. There I am, my face cradled between two hands, eyes big and terrified and earnest. He’s captured me in a few lines of pencil, taken what I am and copied me onto a piece of paper so that I half-expect the woman there to move her eyes and start staring at me.

If this is how he sees me... I’m not sure what to do, or how to be.

One picture will not completely change how I perceive myself. One picture can start to make me ask questions about how I look, how I make myself feel. In that drawing, Hunter’s captured me like he’s stolen a piece of my soul and soldered it to paper. I’m there, in those lines, in the shading.

“Here.” A palm settles on my shoulder, and I turn around. Hunter’s holding out a pair of sweats and a ratty t-shirt that has been washed so many times, it feels like cashmere against the skin. A little thrill chokes me as I realize I’m going to be wearing his clothes – like I’m really his.

Do not swoon, do not swoon. Is grinning allowed?

“Trade off,” I say, hoisting Matty further up my body, and turning him around for Hunter to grab onto. I get the sweats and shirt and make my way to the bathroom. I have a total girl moment where I stand there, fully dressed in his clothes and take a whiff of his scent, rubbing the material of the clothes all over me because I’m a loser.

“Close the light, would you?” Hunter asks when I walk back into his room, Matty snuggled up into his ribs, a corner of the bed turned down for me, the dark blue sheets looking inviting. What’s stopping me from coming home to this every single day?

My heart tries to leave my body by using an escape route up my throat. I nod, and shut off the lights, taking baby steps until I hit the edge of the bed in the dark. I lift up my knee and slide in, heart still pounding at my throat, excitement making my organs do little dances that would pull all the professionals on Dancing with the Stars to shame.

I collapse onto my left shoulder, shoving my arm under the pillow so I’m on my side, looking in the dark at Hunter’s silhouette, and the smaller one of Matty’s body plastered to his side. Hunter positions himself to lie down on his side, facing me. We stare at each other in the darkness, sharing air, sharing sheets and a bed.

“He’s finally asleep,” Hunter whispers in the dark, I shut my eyes, listening to the cadence, the rhythm of his words caressing me in the dark. He sounds close. Intimate. All mine.