Page 72 of Saving Sparrow (Slow Burns & Tragic Beginnings #2)

It wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be, not when he spent the whole time vigilantly watching for dropped crumbs. Still, it was a nice change, and it was nice to watch him try to change.

Afterward, we did what we’d come to do almost every night before bed. We watched the stars from the front yard. I shared stories about my past while he listened, not my past with Elliott and Quentin, but my early years. The years that helped shape me—what I could remember of them anyway.

I told him stories about my mother’s childhood, about how my grandparents made their way to this country, about how they’d died, leaving her to raise me on her own after my father abandoned her.

I told him more than I’d ever told Quentin or Elliott because Sparrow had a way of making me dig deep for things long forgotten.

He’d never had anyone to talk to before, and now that he wasn’t afraid to show how much he enjoyed our conversations, he was eager for more of them.

Sparrow was nice to me without having to fight himself for it, each act of kindness comparable to him showing me a piece of his heart. I found myself wanting the whole of it.

I’d said I’d do the right thing in the end, but when we came in from the cold, and he led me upstairs instead of to his workout room, I wasn’t so sure I knew right from wrong anymore.

“You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor,” he said from the bedroom doorway.

“I sleep wherever you sleep.” I stayed close to the door as well, letting him know I’d follow if he planned on leaving me here.

He stared me down, and I crossed my arms, staring right back. He sighed in resignation. “I’ll have to get a spare blanket for the couch.”

“You could take the quilt down from the window,” I suggested, “or… you could sleep in the bed with me.” We’d slept together enough now that this shouldn’t have been awkward, but it was. It felt like we were moving on to something different.

“I’ll take the quilt down after I start the fire.”

“Okay. You still have a ton of clothes in the closet,” I said, making it clear I didn’t want him to leave, not even to get ready for bed. “I’ll shower and change first, then you can use the bathroom.”

“Alright,” he whispered.

Sparrow slipped into the bathroom once I was done. He’d packed the hearth with firewood, ensuring it would burn all night. He’d spread the patchwork quilt over the couch, leaving the starry night sky visible to me once again. I set one of my pillows on top of the quilt before sliding into bed.

I sat up when Sparrow came out of the bathroom. We watched each other, mouths slightly parted as if neither of us knew what to say. “Good night,” I ended up going with.

“Good night.” Sparrow settled onto the couch, the back hiding him from me. If I sat up straight enough, I could make out the top of his head.

I lay back down, pulling the blanket to my chest, staring at the ceiling for a long while. I tossed and turned in between, punching my pillow into submission before ending up on my back again, releasing a long exhale.

“Sparrow?” I whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Are you awake?”

He chuckled quietly. “Yes.”

“Wanna talk some more?”

He pushed up, twisting to face me. “Yes.” He sounded scared.

I knew because his voice shook on the word the way mine did when asking the question.

Still, I pulled the covers back on the other side of the bed, patting the spot next to me.

Sparrow uncurled his fingers from the back of the couch and came over.

We sat facing each other, the firelight casting shadows over the room as the stars twinkled outside, and the snowfall swirled around in the wind.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked.

“Anything.” His gaze dipped to my hands, silently demanding I touch him.

I cupped his cheeks the way he loved, brushing my thumbs over his cheekbones.

Sparrow nuzzled into my touch as he sank his fingers into my overgrown hair.

He closed his eyes, and I closed mine too.

He was staring at me when I opened them, staring into me.

We leaned forward at the same time, bringing our foreheads together. I rubbed the tip of his nose with mine, our loud breaths fanning over each other’s lips. We stayed like that for a while, touching each other and breathing each other in, sinking into each other.

Sparrow straightened first, wearing a small smile. We hadn’t really done anything, yet I could tell it meant a lot to him. Probably because it was the most intimate touch he’d ever had. It meant everything to me, too, though, because it was more than I’d experienced in what seemed like forever.

“I want to hear more about the three of you.” He held my hands. “Was everything always good? Or have you been skipping over all the bad stuff?”

There’d been a time when I was scared to tell him anything bad, scared he’d punish me for it. Now, I wanted to share everything with him.

“No, things weren’t always good. We hit a rough patch at the start of freshman year.”

“What happened?”

I chuckled without humor, staring down at our locked hands. “Elliott made a friend. Two of them.”

“That must have been hard for you and Quentin.” He said it as if he knew us, knew the heart of who we were to each other and why.

Most importantly, he said it like he understood me and didn’t judge me for it.

It made me feel happy and seen, but it also made me feel sad and guilty.

So fucking guilty. My emotions were having their way with me, burying me alive.

“It was excruciating,” I breathed. “Quentin couldn’t understand why we weren’t enough for him, and I didn’t want to understand, even though I did. We were… unrecognizable for a while.”

“Did he not love you both anymore?”

“He did. He loved us so much. But he wanted more, and that scared us.”

Sparrow lifted my chin, and again, the way he stared at me gave me the strength to be vulnerable. “Do I still scare you?”

“Not anymore,” I said, then amended, “not in the way you think.”

He slid a palm along my neck until he reached my nape, his steady, capable fingers burrowing softly into my hair.

They stilled after brushing up against the small, circular scar on my scalp.

He knew I’d been hurt that night, but likely not where.

Sparrow massaged it, and I sagged under his touch.

I’d forgotten how much I missed surrendering.

His other hand trailed past my temple and hairline in search of the matching wound.

“It’s still in there,” I whispered.

“Is that safe?” He sounded afraid.

“Safer than trying to remove it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Headaches every now and again.”

His fingers tightened on my hair.

“I’m fine now, Sparrow. It missed the important stuff.”

“I should’ve found and killed them for this,” he whispered. “Whoever they were.”

“Thank you,” I said, gratitude filling my heart. Because his words were another reminder that he no longer believed Quentin and I were the ones who’d hurt Elliott. Sparrow no longer believed we were to blame for him “waking up.”

“I woke up with a gun in my hand,” he said, “and what I thought were dead bodies on the floor.” He shook his head, still rubbing my scar. “I didn’t know.” His words were apologetic. “I didn’t know.” And he still didn’t know what had happened, but he had faith I wasn’t capable of the worst.

I expected him to ask for the truth now, for the details of that night, but he didn’t.

“You’re sleepy,” he said.

“And so are you.” I rested my palms on his cheeks when he prompted me with another glance down at my hands. “So demanding.” I chuckled.

“Your hands are soft.”

“Side effects of being a bookworm,” I said dryly. I skated a hand down to his shoulder, trying to give him some variety. His forehead wrinkled, the lines smoothing away once I brought my hand back to his face. I smiled softly, the gesture catching his attention.

Sparrow’s posture changed, some of his confidence slipping the longer he watched my lips. He licked his own.

“Do you want to kiss me?” I whispered, glad his hands were in my hair and nowhere near the staccato-beating vein at my neck.

“Yes,” he breathed. He didn’t move, just stared wide-eyed at my mouth as though it were a puzzle he couldn’t sort out.

It occurred to me that while I had intimate knowledge of his lips, of what they could do, of what they tasted like, of how swollen and pink his soft skin became after being roughly used… Sparrow himself had never been kissed.

“I can show you how,” I said, which made him flush and bristle.

“I don’t need you to show me.”

“Okay.” I forced myself not to smile. I waited patiently for him, refusing to adhere to the warnings going off in my head in the meantime.

Sparrow closed his eyes, leaning in until his full lips fused with mine. He gave me a gentle peck before sitting back again, his eyes shimmering with excitement. “Was it good?” he asked, as if he didn’t know it could be more.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him, couldn’t help but trace his satisfied grin, couldn’t help but compare his rare show of innocence to Elliott. “Increíble,” I breathed, trying to keep my crumbling emotions out of my tone.

“What does that mean?”

“It means it was amazing.”

Sparrow kissed me again and again, each kiss just as pure as the last, each one breaking me apart. He guided us onto our sides, pulling the covers over us. This time when he kissed me, he paused there, breath held.

I knew I was making a mistake, but I couldn’t stop myself.

Elliott wasn’t coming back, and Quentin was lost to me.

I had no one, and I was so sick of trying to hold it together, of trying to do the right thing.

I was sad and lonely, heartbroken and scared, and Sparrow wanted me.

I needed comfort, needed to be wanted and held.

And Sparrow wanted me. I was just a man who’d lost everything he’d ever treasured, everyone he’d ever loved, and Sparrow was offering me more than what I’d been left with. It was something, and I wanted it.

Maybe I can stay here. Maybe I can live like this. Yes, I thought as my tears soaked my pillow, I could.

I closed my eyes, and with a shuddering breath, I opened up and let Sparrow in.