Page 123 of Bitter’s Sweet

“Acting like a relationship.”

His hand pauses.

The word between us. The one that spooks him worse than Reapers.

I expect him to step back, get sharp, remind me he warned me, say something ugly enough to put distance where his body just erased it.

He doesn’t.

He wrings out the cloth and sets it aside. “Go to sleep, Sweet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the one I got.”

I should push.

I don’t.

Not because the question doesn’t matter, but because I think I already know part of the answer, and the rest is something he is going to have to decide for himself.

When he climbs back into bed, he does not go to the far side. He gets in behind me, pulls the blanket over us both, and settles his body along mine like this is something we have been doing much longer than two nights.

My breath catches.

“You okay?” he asks immediately.

“Yes.”

His arm slides carefully around my waist.

Not trapping. Holding.

There is a difference.

I put my hand over his, and his fingers spread beneath mine.

Outside, festival lights flicker against the window. Inside, Bitter’s bed smells like cedar, smoke, and us.

My heart is doing something dumb and hopeful, something I should probably smother before it grows teeth.

He says he doesn’t do relationships. I believe him when he says he is scared of more, but today he fixed my lock instead of telling me where I was allowed to go. He let me return to school instead of hiding me upstairs. He made CSI ask before touching my phone. He asked before touching Mama’s picture. He asked before touching me.

Again and again, Bitter could have decided for me.

Again and again, he gave the choice back.

Maybe that is why this feels different.

Maybe it isn’t love. Not yet.

Maybe it is something smaller and somehow more frightening.

Trust.

I close my eyes with his hand under mine and let myself have that much.

Just for tonight.