Amusement wanders across his face, and I pull back, sitting heavily on my half of the couch as something like regret slithers through me, and I ignore it.
“Of course you did,” he says, and then turns away, gestures at the TV. “What next?”
* * *
When I wake up again,the TV is on but the screen is still and I can’t make out a single thing on it. I shift on the couch, ready to find my glasses, only to realize that Silas’s head is in my lap and my fingers are tangled in his hair, my other hand draped across his shoulder.
I freeze. My breath catches, and the familiar shards of panic prickle at my chest, because what if he wakes up right now? What if he lifts his head and looks at me and asks what the hell I’m doing, touching him?
What if he finds me stroking his shoulder and winding my fingers through his hair and wants to know why I thought I could touch him, why I thought I could stay the night here watching movies?
Why the fuck I thought I could get into the shower with him and wash his hair and order him around, why I took advantage of him in an obviously compromised state?
It doesn’t matter that he invited me to stay or that he put his head in his lap, not me, or that at any moment he could have thrown me out and we both know it. Anxiety doesn’t give a shit about reality; mine, at least, feeds on long-learned fears and uncertainty.
I tilt my head against the back of the sofa and take a deep breath. I don’t count down all the way but I push my thoughts out instead of in: fabric under my palm, the ends of his hair curling around my fingers, the coffee table hard under my heels.
As carefully as I can, I move my fingers through his slightly-too-long hair, like he needs a haircut but has been putting it off. I drift my thumb through the shorter hairs curled at the back of his neck and he moves in his sleep, nudging his face against my thigh.
I very carefully don’t think about anything besides this exact moment, about how human touch is healing. A comfort and nothing else.
It takes a long time, but I fall back asleep.