Page 6 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

“Because I am curious. Aren’t you?” I could tell he was, but he crossed his arms stubbornly instead of admitting it. I sighed. “You don’t need to be jealous, Quentin.”

The bathroom door unlatched, and we separated. Elliott had chosen the dark sweats, his hair spilling over the shoulders of the white T-shirt. He approached with the dress folded in his arms.

“You’re bleeding,” I said, noticing the bloody footprints trailing from the bedroom door.

“It’s fine, I—”

“Sit,” Quentin interrupted, pointing to the spot he’d cleared on the couch. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit.”

“It’s easier to just listen to him,” I said dryly. Elliott exhaled, putting most of his weight on the ball of his left foot as he headed over. Quentin returned, sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

“Rest your foot here.” He patted his thigh and dug through the kit for an antiseptic wipe. Elliott hesitated before complying.

I smiled, giving him my best “ he’s a worrywart” look before taking the seat next to him.

“This might sting,” Quentin said. Elliott turned away, gripping the couch cushion as Quentin disinfected the area. “You’ve got a splinter. It’s buried deep. I’m gonna have to get it out.”

I gently peeled his fingers off the cushion to hold his hand. Both he and Quentin stared at me. I smiled reassuringly at them both, hoping it was okay.

Elliott’s cheeks were flushed when it was over. Quentin placed a bandage over the wound. “Be right back.” He stood, carefully setting Elliott’s foot onto the coffee table before collecting everything and vanishing into the bathroom.

“I guess we’re terrible guides,” I joked, but Elliott didn’t laugh. He seemed so serious for someone his age. He couldn’t have been any older than us, maybe even a little younger. He reclined on the couch, yawning as he turned to stare out the window.

“Is she your mother?” I didn’t expect him to answer me. He hadn’t the first time I asked.

“My aunt,” he whispered.

“Will she be worried about you?”

“She won’t care.” He sounded hurt by it, and my heart ached for him.

“Where are your parents?”

He looked at me then, his expression telling me nothing.

“You don’t have to ans—”

“They died.”

“How did they die?” It was probably rude to ask, but my teenage brain didn’t realize that at the time. And, well, I had just admitted that I was curious about him.

“I don’t remember.” He blinked slowly until eventually his eyes remained closed.

I craned my head around, meeting Quentin’s equally confused stare as it became clear he’d listened to our conversation. By the time I turned back to Elliott, he was fast asleep, his hand still in mine.

Carefully, Quentin scooped him up into his arms. Elliott’s features softened as he curled into him. Quentin placed him in the center of our bed. Elliott didn’t stir.

Quentin and I looked at each other, asking the same unspoken question. What do we do now? Neither of us wanted to leave him, but we were unsure what to do with ourselves.

We stood over Elliott, watching him. His features were even softer in sleep.

The bed was custom-made, larger than a king. There was plenty of room for us all to lie down and not even come close to touching each other. Quentin spread out on one side, and I took the other. We leaned against the headboard, rigid, too afraid even to breathe.

Without realizing it, we’d both fallen asleep, blinking awake at the same time an hour later. We peered at one another, then our gazes shot to the spot between us. Elliott was still there. We exhaled in joint relief.

We’d unknowingly moved closer to him. We weren’t touching Elliott, but only a few inches separated us from him now. Quentin and I settled back in, drifting off again.

The next time we woke up, the sun had set, and the empty spot between us was cold. I ran my hand over it, feeling weirdly sad he was gone. I should’ve been happy to be alone with Quentin again.

“What are you thinking?” Quentin asked, laying his hand on top of mine.

“I don’t know. I mean, I know, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“Tell me anyway.”

I scooted closer. “Why do you think he can’t remember how his parents died?”

Quentin shrugged. “Maybe he was too young when it happened.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I frowned, going over our interaction with Elliott, remembering him in that dress. “I’m thinking he’s even weirder than we are.”

“Agreed.”

I smiled at that. “If he’s living here now, he’ll probably be attending Locklier High in the fall.” It was the best high school for miles, even if it overflowed with spoiled, rich pricks. “I’m thinking he could probably use two friends.”

What did Quentin and I know about being someone’s friend? The only friends we ever had were each other. I mean, we treated each other well, so there was that. But did we know how to share? Could we learn? Something about Elliott made me want to try.

I expected Quentin to get all territorial about it, especially after his earlier comment about my curiosity. Seemed like all he needed was a nap to calm his possessiveness, or maybe he was finally ready to admit he was curious about Elliott too.

“What are you thinking?” I asked when he didn’t respond.

He moved in close until we almost touched, surprising me even more when he whispered near my lips, “I’m thinking you might be right.”