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“Can you unlock the door?”
He nods and reaches over to unlatch it. I hop off the toilet before entering the stall with him. The kid is clearly unwell. I have the urge to hold him up so he doesn’t fall over.
So, I do.
I grip his arm, stepping closer. His sunshine and apples scent invades my senses, only now he smells sweet from his juice and banana.
“How can I help?” My eyes pin his.
“You’re doing it.”
The bell rings and people start to flood the bathroom. I close and lock the stall door so no one teases him. As they move on to their next class or lunch, and when the bell rings, I arch a questioning brow.
His coloring is better and his already familiar smile is taking up real estate on his face. Up close, I notice how long his dark eyelashes are. Just how pouty his lips are. I realize had I taken all those pills this morning, then I wouldn’t have had the insane fluttering in my stomach that makes me wonder just how sweet Kit Strong tastes.
“You’re gay too,” he says, no judgment in his tone.
“Yeah.” I don’t fidget or shy away from his assessment. “That obvious?”
“Your social media has a quote that says, ‘Out and proud,’ so yeah, kinda.”
A smile tugs at one corner of my lips. “Did you stalk out the entire senior class?”
There’s only ninety-eight of us, so it’s not impossible.
“All the teachers too,” he says, beaming.
“So you know…” I trail off, choking on my words. I shove my hand into my pocket, rattling the pill bottle, needing to have that safety net in my grip.
“About the accident,” he murmurs, “yes.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, hating that for the first time in weeks, the tears tease me again.
“Jasper, I need to go to lunch.”
My eyes pop back open as I study him. “What’s this mean?” I grab his hand, ignoring the jolt that shoots straight to my dick, and inspect the tattoo.
“It’s a tattoo with the Type 1 diabetes symbols on it.” He chuckles. “Mom was not thrilled when I got this. Not thrilled at all. Dad high-fived me, though.”
This cheesy, goofy, too-smiley kid has a tattoo like a badass.
“You eat too much sugar or something?” I ask, frowning at him. No wonder he’s hyper as fuck.
“No, dummy,” he says, his grumpy mood from earlier now absent. “I was diagnosed when I was fourteen. Basically my pancreas doesn’t work. I have to do all the work for it. Constant work, too.”
My aunt Helen has diabetes, but I always thought it was because she liked to bake cakes.
“You have to prick your finger?” I ask, remembering that about my aunt.
“It’s a lot more than that.” He runs his fingers through his bouncy hair, his expression still seemingly dazed. “The stuff you saw was my glucagon emergency kit. I had to bolus and Mrs. Rowe was already pissed I was eating in her classroom, so I came here to do it. It’s my fault. Dropped my breakfast sandwich in the grass on the way to school and overcorrected on my carbs. I have a monitor that tells me when my levels aren’t right.” He lifts his shirt to reveal his stomach. “See?”
The small device I’d seen earlier is definitely attached to his skin. I’m more intrigued with the cuts of muscles into his abs. Or the dark happy trail below his belly button. My dick thickens in appreciation.
“What’s this?” I ask, my voice husky. I touch the device on his stomach.
“An insulin pump. Though, sometimes, I have to intervene when things are out of whack. You’d think four years later I’d have it under control.” He shakes his head, his dark hair bouncing. “This disease keeps me on my toes.”
Disease.
Disease.
Disease.
The word makes my stomach clench painfully. I don’t want him to have a disease. I’m suddenly all-too protective over Kit Strong, who doesn’t seem strong at all. One of his organs has failed him and he manually does the labor to keep his body moving.
“Are you going to…” My voice cracks. “Die?”
He lets his shirt drop down and he steps closer. “I don’t plan on it until I’m an old man.”
Relief floods through me. I sag and let out a sigh.
“I have to eat, though.” He stands on his toes, pressing a chaste kiss on my lips like we didn’t just meet hours ago. “I’ll tell you all about it over lunch.”
I’m so stunned he kissed me, all I can do is gape at him.
I would’ve missed this.
Had I come to this stall alone, hours ago, I would’ve missed this not-so-lonely moment with a bright boy with a broken organ and a smile as big as Texas.
My own broken organ—the empty husk that was shriveling away in my chest—starts thudding hard. Blood pumps from it to my extremities, especially to my dick. Heat flames across my flesh as I blatantly stare at his pretty strawberry lips that were soft and sweet as they pressed to mine.
