Page 15

Two spoonfuls in, the screen goes dark, and the opening notes of the movie soundtrack play.

It’s the action film first. Avery stays wedged in the corner for the first ten minutes, reaching to dig his spoon into their shared dessert. When the ice cream gets low, he finds himself inching into the space between himself and Sascha, using the excuse of getting a better angle. By the time the last bits of candy are scraped from the bottom of the waxy paper, Avery’s shoulder is nearly in contact with Sascha’s elbow.

Sascha tosses the empty cup into the bag stuffed with discarded wrappers. It nearly tips on its side, leaving him muttering curses as he crushes the trash to fit better. Avery smothers a laugh behind his hand, but it cuts off abruptly when Sascha settles back in his place—except his forearm is now pressed against the wrist Avery’s propped himself up with. Avery’s awareness of the movie implodes, but he pretends he’s still watching. The sensation of fine blond hairs tickling his nerve endings leaves his tongue leaden in his mouth, and even though the warm summer air isn’t as humid as the past few nights, Avery breaks into a sweat.

Not long after, Sascha asks, “Are you okay?” His voice is hesitant, as if he’s worried about the answer.

Too embarrassed to admit how aggressively his body is responding to even the slightest hint of skin-on-skin, Avery tries to blow it off. “I’m fine,” he says, but Sascha’s brows knit. Of course he’d be able to spot the weak lie. Avery makes a more honest attempt: “I don’t want to make things awkward.”

Sascha elbows him gently. “You aren’t. I’m not… expecting anything. You know that, right?”

Avery can’t imagine Sascha pressuring him past his boundaries. Despite—and because of—the fireworks in his stomach, he really,reallydoesn’t want Sascha to think more than brushing arms is off the table. “I’m not worried about that.”

“Are you worried about something else?”

“Define ‘worry.’” Avery can’t help but laugh when Sascha rolls his eyes.

“If there’s nothing you’re worried about,” Sascha begins, turning onto his side and leaning further into Avery’s space, “then you won’t mind me pulling you closer, will you?”

At first, Avery freezes, a shock of cold racing down his spine, stark against the summer heat. As his brain reboots, Avery realizes the brief paralysis is anticipation, not fear. So he allows Sascha to draw him in, an asteroid being coaxed into the atmosphere of a foreign celestial body. When Sascha encourages Avery’s cheek to rest against the warmth of his shoulder, it feels like breath rushing back into his lifeless body.

This isn’t an anonymous fuck he can hide behind. Sascha chose to seek him out even knowing what he is, despite his unglamorous circumstances. It’s the first time someone has genuinely wanted to be around Avery since he fled Indiana, and for a terrible moment, he’s seized by emotion. Tears threaten what’s left of Avery’s composure, but a deep inhalecalms the urge, allowing him to relax—for the second time—against Sascha’s firm chest.

“Why are you so fuckin’ comfortable?” Avery mutters. Sascha merely laughs and gets his arm around Avery’s back, thumb teasing the sliver of skin between his t-shirt and jeans.

Sascha doesn’t stop touching him during the movie. Tinny gunfire spits from the speaker, but Avery can barely focus on the fight choreography with the way Sascha’s middle finger is circling the protrusion of his hipbone. He swallows hard, keeping his eyes on the screen through the climactic final fight despite the long fingers that have shifted to pluck at his curls.

The credits creep up the screen, white text washed out by the lights that come up around the lot. Sascha finally moves, sliding out from under Avery to stretch his arms and roll his back. Avery cracks his knuckles idly, joining the pops of Sascha’s spine. There are dimples at the small of his back, exposed when Sascha extends from his toes to his fingers, interlocked and reaching skyward. Avery watches him, smiling faintly when Sascha relaxes with a loud exhale.

“I get stiff being still for so long,” he informs Avery. “Movies should have intermissions. Hey, I gotta run to the bathroom. It’s right by the concession stand—do you want anything?”

Avery barks a surprised laugh. “All that DQ wasn’t enough for you?”

A grin spreads Sascha’s mouth, which started looking really goddamn appealing about two thirds into the movie. “I’ve shifted twice today. Puts a lot of pressure on my body, so I need to keep up with my metabolism.”

“I see. Well, get your snacks. I’ll be fine.”

Sascha spreads his hands in acknowledgement, then turns toward the footpath leading toward the concession stand and bathroom. He only pauses once, looking over his shoulder to send Avery a wink that steals all the moisture in his mouth.

Fuck. He should have asked Sascha to bring back a water bottle. The best he’s got is melted ice at the bottom of one remaining drink cup. The faint taste of leftover pop is nasty, but at least he can swallow without his tongue sticking to his upper palate.

Avery grabs the bag stuffed with trash and carries it to a nearby bin, but sudden understanding stops him dead with his hands hovering over the refuse.

This is adate.

How in fuck’s name did Avery get halfway through a date without realizing what it was? Like it’s normal for handsome guys to hunt down failed hookups, buy them food, and take them to the movies. Andcuddle. They cuddled, and Avery didn’t even freak out. Not enough to extricate himself from Sascha’s easy embrace, much less ask to be taken home before even finishing the first film. God, that would be mortifying. It’s too far to walk, and Avery doesn’t know the way besides.

A shudder chases the thought from his shaggy curls downward, like ice dropped under his collar. Avery scratches at the prickling sensation on his scalp, which only makes it worse. There’s a hive of hornets under his skin, building a nest inside his ribcage. Trying to shake it loose only angers them further.

When Sascha returns, he’s carrying a shopping bag full of junk food. His goofy wave when he sees Avery peering through the windshield sets the hornets off again, and by the time Sascha parks his ass on the blanket next to Avery, the buzzing has become unbearable.

“Looks like you got enough snacks to last you the ride home,” Avery notes, rubbing at his chest.

“We’ll see,” Sascha says.

The fabric of Avery’s cheap t-shirt scrapes over his top surgery scars, leftover from the incisions that took a bunch of unwanted stuff off his chest. He’s lucky he had it done long before turning into a werecreature because dealing with farmwork in a binder would be such miserable hell, he’d opt for the ‘death in a drainage ditch’ any day. The scars don’t hurt anymore, but the rough texture doesn’t feel great.

Unlike Sascha’s shirt. A tank-top of soft, breathable cotton. Probably brand name, not bought from a bargain pack at Wal-Mart. Avery wouldn’t mind removing his uncomfortable shirt from the equation entirely. As nice as it is, Sascha’s tank is welcome to take a hike as well.