Page 10 of Bad Bunny
A beat passes between us.
His arms sag before he manages to lift them, and I dress him like a child. He gives a long blink.
“Stay with me,” I mutter, tugging the hoodie down over his head. It catches on his shoulders, stretching in a way that feels vaguely alarming before finally settling across his chest. The sleeves stop halfway down his forearms. The hem barely covers his navel. As I smooth the fabric into place, a faint dusting of glitter transfers from the front to the bare skin of his collarbone.
The man is literally sparkling.
I drag my eyes away. It takes a surprising amount of effort.
“Okay,” I murmur, stepping back. “Great. Perfect. No one will notice anything weird about this.”
I look down.
Oh, right.
Pants.
My feet slide across the linoleum as I sprint across the room for a second time. I almost go down. My arms windmill wildly as I fight for balance and manage, barely, to stay upright. At the bin, I drop to my knees and dig frantically through a mound of abandoned mittens, hats, and a puffy coat with green dinosaurs on it until my hand closes on a pair of navy sweatpants.
I yank them free and hold them up.
Then I freeze.
I recognize these pants.
They’re Seth’s spare clothes. He left them here after field day last fall when someone dumped Gatorade on him in the middle of the relay race, and I took them home to wash.
I never got around to giving them back.
Oops. Oh well.
“These will do,” I say when I bring them back to Sorren.
He eyes them with deep suspicion. “They appear…small.”
“They’re fine.”
“They are child-sized.”
“You’re bleeding on my floor.” I shake the pants out, trying to straighten the legs so he can step into them. “We’re past the point of dignity.”
For a second, I think he’s gone. His head dips forward, and I hold my breath until his eyes swim back into focus. Slowly, with a hand on my shoulder for support, he lifts one foot. I help him step into them, trying very hard not to think about the fact that I am dressing a wounded, half-conscious stranger in my kindergarten classroom. After some determined tuggingand what may legally qualify as manhandling, we wrestle them into place. They sit low on his hips, the waistband pulled tight enough to make me nervous for the structural integrity of the elastic. The hems hover several inches above his ankles.
“Right,” I say, pushing myself upright. “Let’s get you standing.”
He rises slowly. Unsteadily. When he sways this time, I’m close enough to catch him. His arm comes around my shoulders automatically, his weight settling against me, heavy and warm and very, very real. The moment his skin touches mine, something strange flickers low in my body. It’s not pain. Not fear. Just a brief, disorienting warmth, like recognizing someone I’ve never met.
My brain chooses this exact moment to become aware of:
A) how large he is
B) how good he smells, like spring rain and something sweet I can’t quite name. Clover, maybe. Or wildflowers.
C) how little fabric exists between us.
Focus, Nora. If he passes out, you’re screwed.
The lights snap back on. They flare bright, then dim again. Sorren and I both turn to watch the bulbs pulse overhead.
