Page 60 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

Sparrow eventually started again, and I made an effort to keep quiet as he worked.

He stretched my arms, shoulders, legs, and even my fingers.

I didn’t make a peep when the seemingly hour-long stretch shifted to a massage, when he kneaded my hamstrings and calf muscles, then rolled me onto my back to tackle my quads.

Sparrow took his time, spending an excessive amount of it on each area, more than the few minutes I’d dedicated to it over the past few mornings.

I cracked an eye open, watching deep concentration play out on his face. His hands were no longer uncertain; they prodded and moved along my body with professional efficiency.

“Where did you learn all this?”

Sparrow’s hands stilled as his gaze flicked to mine, and with a sigh he went back to his task.

“My mother,” he said a moment later. “It was sometimes hard to move after recuperating in bed for so long.” His hands stalled for a brief moment again, and I wondered if he’d understood the irony in our roles right then.

“On your stomach again.” He moved over to the left side of my body now. I rolled over, groaning.

“That was a good groan,” I blurted, settling in and closing my eyes.

I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until something crawled over my hair. I woke up with a start, the creepy-crawly sensation taking me back to my childhood.

Scrambling into a seated position, I batted at my hair, but nothing fell from the strands. Everything came back to me then, where I was, who I was with, and why I’d fallen asleep in the first place.

I shoved my hair back, finding Sparrow still kneeling near me. His fingers gripped the tops of his thighs, a strange expression on his face.

“Sorry. I must have been dreaming about… never mind.” I rubbed at my eyes with the heels of my palms before stretching my arms over my head. Nothing cracked or pulled. “Wow.” I moved my neck from side to side. “I feel a million times better. Thank you.”

Sparrow nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. It never failed to take me by surprise when he made the simplest, normal gestures.

I cleared my throat, looking away when he arched a brow. I’d been staring at him for too long. “How long have I been napping?”

Sparrow snorted, and I whipped my head up.

“Did you just snort?”

“I did not,” he said defensively, “and you weren’t napping, you were in a coma, complete with ear-splitting snoring.”

My mouth dropped open in shock and offense. “I do not snore.”

“I’m afraid you do,” he said with a straight face. “All the time. I can’t even hear myself read when…” For the first time ever, his whole face turned beet red. I perked up, pointing at his blush.

“So you do read to me!” I’d been having the best sleep I’d had in a while recently, waking up feeling refreshed—albeit stiff.

But still… I thought I’d only been dreaming about Demian Demarco’s story.

I woke up each day feeling as if I’d re-experienced chapters of his life.

It was Sparrow all along. The reality of that deflated some of my excitement, confusion stampeding all over it.

Why had he been reading to me? And why did he lie about it the first time I’d asked?

“So what?” he snapped, pushing to his feet and glaring down at me. “I was in the mood to read, and you’ve been hogging the book. I figured it made sense to read in your room and leave the book on the nightstand when I was done, so you could have it in the morning.”

“Then why didn’t you just say that before?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to me,” I whispered, staring at his back when he spun away. He’d turned too late, though. I’d seen the look in his eyes. Sparrow wasn’t angry, he was embarrassed. “You feel vulnerable when you’re nice to me, but I like it. Being kind doesn’t make you weak.”

“Stop pretending you know me,” he spat over his shoulder, but some of the heat in his voice had simmered.

“Okay, I’ll stop. But not before I say thank you. I’ve never considered myself a deep sleeper, but somehow your voice holds me under. I’ve needed the rest, so thank you.” I scanned the room, searching for subject changers. “How often do you work out?”

“What?” The question came out light, as though I’d thrown him off balance.

“How often do you work out? There isn’t much gym equipment in here; are you more into calisthenics?”

“Yes,” he said, still sounding baffled. “And I work out every day.”

“Even when you’re tired?”

“Especially then.” Vigilant, consistent, and disciplined. He’d turned my way again, hovering over me with clear suspicion.

“I never really had to exercise,” I admitted, leaning back on my palms. “My mother said I was blessed with my father’s good genes. I only started working out recently after… the incident. I needed to rehab and build my strength up as quickly as possible. Turns out I like it.”

Sparrow sank down into a cross-legged position, his back ramrod straight, hands draped over his knees. He made the casual position seem formal.

“I’m more into the machines, though. That’s mostly what the rehabilitation facility used. My issues were more cognitive-related, but exercise helped, especially with coordination. I recovered pretty quickly, which the doctors attributed to my being young.” But I’d been highly motivated.

“Did Elliott like to work out?”

“Not really. I mean, he’d do football stuff with Quentin, and sometimes even hit the weight room with him, but I wouldn’t call him committed to exercise. For Ellie, it was more about bonding with Quentin and having fun.”

“Ellie?”

“Oh, yeah,” I chuckled. “That’s what I called him.” I said it in my head whenever I recounted our story to Sparrow, but outwardly I’d only ever said his real name.

“Elliott was named after my grandfather.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Better that than some biblical name. Ellie fits him better.” His posture was softer now, but still perfect.

“I thought so too.”

We were quiet while I found the courage to suggest the thing I’d been thinking about for days.

“I, umm, saw a tiny tree in the back of the shed the other night.” It was cold in the room, but my hands were suddenly clammy.

I rubbed them along my sweat-clad thighs.

“Saw some string lights, too, and other festive things.” I waited for Sparrow to give me a sign he knew where I was going, but he just stared. Would he reject my idea?

“I’ve been singing Christmas carols to Joshua, if it could be called singing.

He likes it when I do. ‘ Frosty the Snowman ’ is his favorite—bet you can guess why,” I said dryly, but Sparrow didn’t react.

“Anyway, singing to him makes me miss the holiday season. I figured we could still celebrate, maybe. Pick a day, maybe sometime next week to give us time to decorate the place—or just the tree would be fine,” I hurried to say when he gave me a look.

He hadn’t stopped me yet, which oddly made me more nervous because I didn’t know whether to shut up and wait or to keep trying to convince him.

“I can make my mother’s famous Morir Sonanado .

She’d sneak a splash of rum in it—but I can leave that out.

” I didn’t think Sparrow would risk his control by drinking alcohol.

“There’s other stuff I can make too. And maybe we can make our own gifts.

Nothing fancy,” I added quickly. “Just small, silly stuff, maybe. Or nothing at all. We could just do the tree. Or…” I trailed off when Sparrow’s lips twitched.

“You enjoyed seeing me squirm, didn’t you?” I drawled.

“Maybe,” he said with the tiniest hint of a smile.

“So, can we? Celebrate late-Christmas?”

“Maybe,” he repeated, his smile fully forming despite himself. It was beautiful, bright, and all his.

“Okay.” I bit my lip to suppress my own smile. “Are you tired?”

He had a little bruising under his eyes, but nothing too bad.

“No,” he answered, although I doubted he would’ve said yes if he were. “Why?”

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on my knees. “I’d have to keep certain parts tame for you, but do you want to know how we found out Elliott loved us the same way we loved him?”

Sparrow leaned forward too, the slight sign of exhaustion now resembling interest. “Yes,” he said, then nearly knocked me backward when he whispered, “please.”