Page 91 of A Million To Fall

He nods.

“In the middle of the night?”

He shrugs. “I take my dental hygiene seriously.”

Another completely involuntary laugh escapes me. Maybe I haven’t quite recovered from my mild concussion yet. Or maybe it’s just the hour of the night and the remnants of adrenaline rushing through my veins.

“Do you have to go?” I ask, sad at the mere thought of it. “I know Mrs. Davis is expecting you back at some point tonight.”

He shakes his head, but I don’t miss the tick in his jaw. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.” Then he blinks at me. “Unless you’re asking me to leave, of course. I won’t force my company on you.”

I know what my answer should be. I know how Archer would react if he found out I invited another guy to spend the night at my house. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone I’ve known since before I even lost my first baby tooth. Then again, this isn’t something I have to tell him.

“I want you to stay,” I say like I’m confessing to murder. Maybe, in one way or another, I am…

Boston nods, hesitates for a fraction of a second, then steps around me and lowers himself back onto the couch—same spot he vacated to brush his teeth and relieve the crick in his neck.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching him—the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the way his dark hair doesn’t even hint at sleep. He was probably awake this whole time while I skipa-dee-doo-dah’d through dream land, using him unabashedly as the most comfortable heating pad.

He watches me back, eyebrows starting a slow ascent as the seconds tick by.

I should go upstairs, climb into my own bed, and let him get some uninterrupted sleep in a horizontal state. “Do you work tomorrow?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Sunday’s my day off.”

Apparently my brain interprets that as permission to keep the poor boy awake a little longer. I pretzel myself on the couch next to him, reaching for the blanket on the floor.

Boston chuckles. “It’s July.”

“Don’t know what that has to do with anything,” I say, and tug a small corner of the blanket onto Boston’s leg just because I can. “Did you sleep at all?”

He glances at me. “Not really. Closed my eyes a little here and there after the TV auto-shut off, but—”

“You couldn’t get comfortable with a snoring human smushed against you?”

He smirks. “Yeah. And I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”

Are chest cramps a thing? Because it suddenly feels like my ribs are all locked up.

We fall silent, and I allow myself to sit with the dim quiet. It feels so different with him here—warm and safe instead of cold and insidious. And there’s something else, too…

“I don’t know how you manage to be alone so much,” I whisper, partially to distract myself from that nameless feeling swirling in my stomach.

“Necessity,” he says quietly.

I turn toward him. Moonlight spills through the backyard window, catching in his eyes. “That makes me sad for you. You must’ve been so lonely.”

I’ve known Boston most of my life—or at least, I thought I did. His mom always seemed like she loved him. Even after his dad died. Maybe a little distant and tired, but not cruel or neglectful. So why didn’t she report him missing? Why didn’t anyone?

“I got used to it,” he says quietly.

The sadness in his tone makes me think he’s anything but used to it. I shift closer, like that could somehow erase—or at least ease—the heaviness that must have been his life.

We sit there in the dark, inches apart. We may not be touching, but I feel him all around me, his scent, his body heat, his comforting presence. And somehow, it feels… intimate.

“Something about darkness,” I say quietly, trying to ignore the warmth gathering low in my stomach, “makes me want to confess things.”

Boston chuckles, low and soft. “What in the world could you have to confess, Stormy?”