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Only inches separate us, and I can’t help but think back on all those fuzzy nights I found my way here, into Jeremy’s bed.
Of all fucking places to go…
But just like last night, in the drive over here when I told myself I’d just be checking on him, making sure he got home safe, that’s all…
I couldn’t stop from inviting myself upstairs.
Couldn’t stop myself from prolonging my time with him, despite knowing how late it was, how tired we both were.
Being in Jeremy’s presence has been a balm to me for as long as I can remember. Even when we were kids, he’s who I’d seek out when I was missing my dad or beating myself up for struggling with piano, or just…fuck, having a bad day.
With him, I just…I never felt the need to put on airs. With him, I don’t have to be strong and put-together.
Sure, it feels good when I do something that put stars in his eyes, like that first day we met, and I defended him. Or like last night, when he talked about how much that coming out party I threw him meant to him, despite how fucked out of my mind I was back then.
But it goes so much deeper than that.
With him, I’m not feeding some ego-driven desire, but rather feeding some deep-seated need to just…exist. It’s a need I never really considered enough to even put words to, until I no longer had what fulfilled it.
Or rather…who.
With Izzy, it’d started out as me wanting to impress her.
After all, she was this pretty girl who made magic with her fingers.
But Jeremy…
Jeremy…
My gaze drifts down the delicate knobs of his spine, lingering on the two, barely there dimples above the waistband of his black shorts.
And I gulp.
He makes magic with his fingers too.
And it’s messy and quiet and perfect in its imperfections and it’s…
“Freeing,” I murmur.
He groans softly, and I tense.
He lifts his head from the pillow, twisting around, and cracking an eye open. “Mason?”
My heart thumps, and my mouth dries. “Morning.”
He swallows and wrinkles his nose, looking around. “What are you… What time is it?”
“Early,” I hear myself say. I rip out the pages in his sketchbook, only belatedly realizing I’d flipped the page and written all around his drawing. So caught up in the whirlwind of my thoughts—the music, and words I was trying to chase down—I didn’t notice.
Grimacing, I carefully fold the pages, and set them on the nightstand. Sensing Jeremy’s gaze, I say, “Sorry, got bit by the muse. Needed something to write in.”
A beat passes. “Oh. O-okay.”
I lick my lips, flitting my gaze to his just as he frowns, leans up a bit, and looks down.
“Where the fuck’s my shirt?” he mutters.
“Don’t know. You must’ve thrown it off in your sleep,” I say, my voice oddly distant even to my own ears.
