Page 52 of On His Mind

Percy: Yeah.

I look around my room for anything out of place. My trench coat is lopsided on the hanger, and the pile of sketchbooks are not aligned. I walk out and grab a few of my magazines in case he doesn’t come with a book.

After twenty minutes, I realize that he’s walking. Now I feel bad. It’s February, after midnight, and it takes him twenty-five minutes to get here. He texts me when he’s close. When the elevator opens, he’s standing there with snow melting in his blonde hair and his hands red, no gloves. He says my name like it’s the whole greeting.

“Penelope.”

He steps into the elevator, and I smell the clean scent of soap on his clothes.

“Ivory is asleep, so we have to be quiet.”

He nods as we walk out.

When we step into my apartment, he gently pulls off his boots and carries them through the house, following after me. I grab a towel and fold it near my bedroom door. He places his boots on it as I quietly shut the door.

He stands in the middle of my room, and even for a room this size, he takes up a lot of space. The snow on his hair has melted. He shakes his head like a shaggy dog.

I squeal, not expecting the cold drops to land on me.

“Sorry,” he murmurs quietly.

I wipe my skin where the droplets landed.

He walks to my desk and looks at the collage I have pinned to a large corkboard. I have pages of magazines, my own drawings, and inspirational quotes. I feel a bit exposed, but his eyes quickly divert to the chair where he takes a seat.

“You walked?” I ask.

He nods, looking up at me.

I walk to the desk, careful not to enter his personal space. “I brought these in here for you to read.”

He looks at the magazines. “And you’ll draw?”

I reach for my sketchpad. “Yeah.”

I take my sketchpad to my bed, and he opens one of the magazines.

For a long while, the silence in the bedroom is fine. He’s reading a magazine front to back, and I’m sketching something unimportant.

I look over once. He’s leaning back into the chair, magazine folded in one hand, and his brow is low as his eyes scan the page.

I look over again after a while, and he’s got the magazine flat on my desk, leaning over to read it. He’s shifted a few times, and my fingers are aching from drawing.

“Are you comfortable?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he answers.

I stand up and put my sketchpad back on my desk. “Are you really not tired?”

“I am, but it doesn’t mean I can sleep.” He looks up at me.

“Do you want to try magnesium?”

He stares blankly at me.

“It’s a supplement to improve sleep.”

“Does it work?”