Page 78 of Ghost Ribbon

Marco was still asleep beside me.

He rolled slightly onto his side at some point in the night, one hand tucked close beneath his cheek, the other curled loosely in the blanket as if even asleep he needed something to hold on to. My shirt had ridden up one pale thigh.

He looked unreal. Like something that had been created somewhere far beyond this world. A piece of the heavens that had fallen into the wrong hands.

A star, I thought. My little star.

My fingers slid lightly into his hair, brushing the dark curls back from his forehead. I traced one away from his temple, then let my hand drift lower.

His skin was warm.

I ran my fingers down the side of his face with a touch so light it was barely there, across the curve of his cheekbone, the softness beneath his eye, the line of his jaw. I wanted to memorize him like this. Not the frightened version of him that kept looking over his shoulder. Not the one who braced before I even spoke. This one.

Soft. Defenseless. Beautiful.

His eyelashes fluttered.

Then his eyes opened. Fear flashed there.

Pure, instinctive, immediate.

It cut through me. I felt my mouth harden before I could stop it.

I hated that look.

Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes his fear was exquisite. Sometimes I could taste the way it tangled with that traitorous flicker of wanting he didn’t know what to do with. Sometimes I enjoyed watching it move through him because it meant I was there, under his skin, impossible to ignore.

But this wasn’t that.

This was simple terror.

Animal terror.

The kind with no warmth in it at all.

And I hated it.

Because I remembered another night. Another version of him. Small hands and fearless eyes and a smile offered to me without hesitation under a lemon tree, as if there had never been anything in me worth fearing in the first place.

That memory sat too close to the surface where he was concerned.

Where did that fearless boy go?

The fear receded when his vision cleared, but not completely. Marco was never entirely unworried around me, and I guess that’s my fault.

He blinked, then pushed himself up slowly on one elbow, curls falling into his face.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

I brushed one curl back again, unable not to.

“Good morning, little star.”

His cheeks warmed instantly. That was another thing I liked about him - how easy it was to make him blush. Embarrassment moved through Marco so visibly.

Before he could retreat into that blush or say something awkward and self-conscious, I leaned in and kissed him.

He startled.