Page 32 of Darkness Defined

It doesn’t really matter.

I pulled the dream Matt closer.

It’s not like he’ll ever know.

I deepened the dream kiss and felt an echoing ache. How was it possible to want someone so much? A flicker of awareness said I definitely should not be having this kind of dream on the communal couch, but I was too far gone to care. I dug my fingers into my imaginary Matt’s sides, desperately needing him closer.

There was a sudden sound outside of my wonderful bubble, as if something very large had hit the floor. I struggled to solidify the hazy illusion, unwilling to let him go. Not when it was getting good. A door slammed, and the dream shattered. I groaned in disappointment as the pieces fractured into the ether.

Finally, I cracked an eye to see what the commotion was about. What I found was not what I expected. Matt’s face was a mask of panic as he stood outside his door, like he was trying to hold something back. I woke up a bit more when I realized he was only wearing pajama pants. After the dream I’d been having, it felt like the universe was finally taking pity on me. My fantasy didn’t do him justice.

Perfectly smooth lines ran across his torso, creating a subtle definition. My hand twitched by my side, remembering how, only moments ago, we were dreaming about tracing the entire map of his skin. I swallowed hard. He was incredible. He also still hadn’t seen me. Which meant I should probably stop ogling him before he noticed. It didn’t take a genius to know I definitely should not be fantasizing about making out with my straight roommate.

“You alright?” I asked.

Matt looked up sharply, his eyes wild. At the question, his entire body seemed to simultaneously tense and relax. I did what I could not to gawk as the ripple made its way down his torso. Whatever was going on clearly had him strung out.

He looked around like he was searching for an answer. “I… I’m fine. I thought I heard something.” Unexpectedly, he straightened up and walked over to sit beside me on the couch.

I quickly snatched a pillow that had fallen and moved it to my lap. He gave me a quizzical look, but didn’t comment. Meanwhile, my hormones were painfully aware that if he was any closer, we’d be touching.

He sat in total silence, gazing off at nothing. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I held my peace as well. Mostly, I tried not to stare. His current state of dress, or lack thereof, was not helping my situation.

He abruptly stood and looked down at me. “Do you want a drink? Like a beer or something?”

“I don’t really drink,” I replied by rote, and could have immediately smacked myself. Was it possible for me to be any more of a dork?

“Don’t really drink like you don’t like the taste or don’t really drink like you never drink?”

I thought about it for a moment, not wanting to squander the second chance to keep him talking. “Both I guess. Maybe a little more the second.”

He nodded like this didn’t surprise him, then turned to walk away. I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over his broad shoulders and where his back dipped in the middle. Then my gaze caught on something unexpected. The right side of his back boasted a mottled bruise that easily covered half his rib cage.

“What happened to you?” I asked without thinking.

He twisted in place to get a better look. “Oh that? Nothing,” he replied nonchalantly, barely even looking back at me.

I desperately wanted to know the real story behind the bruise, but was not about to jeopardize our rapport by pressing my luck. If he said it was nothing, then it was nothing. But how the heck did you forget something like that?

“Do you ever drink?” Matt called from the kitchen.

“Occasionally, but I find I’m not keen on it.”

“Keen,” he repeated quietly to himself.

There was some additional shuffling and then quiet. When I looked back up to see where he’d gone, he was making his way back over with a beer in his hand. Sadly, he’d also put on a shirt. I just barely stopped myself from frowning.

“What have you tried?” He took a sip as he crossed his legs beneath him on the couch.

“A bit of this and that.” I shrugged, at a loss for how to sound even remotely interesting at this point. “Maybe I’m just a picky drinker.”

He held his beer out for me to try. “See what you think of this.”

I stared at it obtusely while a bead of condensation trailed down the side of the bottle and splattered on the thin strip of couch separating us. Drinking from that was literally half a step away from an actual lip-lock.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of cooties.” He wiggled the bottle and raised a speculative eyebrow.

“Cooties?” I echoed, not sure I’d heard him right.