When Sparks Fly

“Good.” She clears her throat. Her gaze moves slowly from my waist back up to my face. “The fans will appreciate your dedication.”

“I’m gonna jump in the shower. You want pancakes or something for breakfast?” I grab the towel from the floor.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” She nods a few times, eyes bouncing around, face a little flushed.

“Do you need my help with anything first?”

She blinks a couple of times. “Uh, no. I’m good. I’ll get changed and put on a pot of coffee.”

“Sounds good.” I brush by her on my way to my bedroom. Usually she’d be grossed out by the fact that I’m sweaty, but today she seems distracted. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just burpee envy.”

“Don’t worry, Ave, you’ll be back to hating burpees soon enough.” I kiss her temple and head down the hall.

Fifteen minutes later I’m showered, and I pass Avery’s closed bedroom door on the way to the kitchen, but pause when I hear a soft groan. I wait a few seconds, unsure if I’m imagining things, or maybe I stepped on the spot on the floor that creaks, but ten seconds later she groans again, longer and lower this time.

Worried she’s hurt herself trying to get to the bathroom and isn’t within reach of her phone, I wrench the door open. At first I’m confused, because Avery’s expression isn’t one I can read. At least until another low sound escapes her, and what I’m finally seeing makes more sense. It’s also 100 percent not what I expect. And Avery most definitely did not hurt herself trying to get to the bathroom. At all.

Her nightshirt is pushed up high, exposing a few inches of toned stomach and a thin sheet covers most of the lower half of her body. Her uncasted leg is bent with her knee and calf peeking out from under the sheet. Her head is thrown back, exposing the smooth expanse of her throat. Her good arm is hidden under the sheets, but the angle and the way the sheets are moving tell me exactly where her hand is and exactly what she’s doing under there.

She’s so focused that she doesn’t notice me standing in her doorway. And I’m so shocked, and maybe a little concerned, or enthralled by how aggressively her hand is moving under that sheet, that all I can seem to do is gawk.

She groans again, and this time it’s one I’m familiar with because I’ve heard it a lot since the accident. Frustration.

“Come on!” The slap is unexpected and based on the sound, she isn’t hitting the mattress.

I jump back, bashing my elbow into the doorjamb.

Her eyes pop open and her head lifts, gaze locking with mine.

“Shit! Sorry! I thought you’d hurt yourself.” I back out of the room, slamming the door shut.

“What the fuck. What happened to knocking?” she yells from the other side.

“I’m really sorry!” I shout back.

I should move away from her door, but I don’t. Instead, I stand there, like a dumbstruck idiot, with my hand still on the knob, trying to wrap my brain around what I walked in on. I don’t know why I’m so surprised. I take care of my own needs at least once a day, so why wouldn’t Avery do the same?

I’ve seen the black packages that come in the mail for her periodically, which indicates that she’s managing her needs. Not once have I allowed myself to think about what that might look like or sound like. But now I’ve seen and heard it, and based on what’s going on below the waist, my body would very much like to witness that again. I shake my head, trying to make the images disappear and force my body to calm the heck down. “I’ll get breakfast started.” I figure the best way to deal with this is to go about things like normal and pretend it didn’t happen.

I’ve managed to get my body under control again by the time Avery appears in the kitchen.

“Hey!” I cringe at the high, almost-prepubescent pitch of my voice and the excessive chipperness.

All I get in return is a grunt. She adjusts her crutch under her arm, hops a couple of times as she finds her balance and opens the cupboard door.

“What do you need? I can help.”

She wobbles, and an elbow gets me in the side as she reaches up to open the cupboard. “I got it, thanks.”

She finally manages to grab the knob, but she loses her hold on her crutch in the process and hops perilously on one foot. I catch it before it hits the ground and wrap my other arm around her waist to keep her steady.

“I’m really sorry, Ave. I thought maybe you’d fallen and hurt yourself. I should’ve knocked first.”

“I should’ve locked my door,” she mumbles, face red, refusing to meet my gaze.