Chapter 25
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I’m very sorry for the things I did while I was sleepy.
Samson shoulder pillow. Samson body bed. All night.
“How’s it feel?” the same woman from yesterday adjusts my armor—which is beautiful dark leather with hundreds of metal scales sewn into it. My movements cause the metal to sing, and I can just imagine the symphony it will make while I’m facing off against monsters.
In other news, I need to kill something.
Stretching my arms, I nod. “It’s great. Thank you.”
“Cool. Delafos will check ya out. I’ve got another project to finish up for the guy your boyfriend punched yesterday.”
Oh.
Yeah.
That did happen.
It was hot.
Almost as hot as a body bed.
Trudging my way out of the backroom, and wishing I were bold enough to say Samson is my husband, not my boyfriend, I stop short when I discover Delafos—a petite brunette with a dramatic figure and the doeiest eyes I’ve seen since my own—has her hands wrapped around Samson’s bicep.
“Wowww,” she coos. “Impressive. Flex for me?”
Distressed, Samson stands securely on the complete opposite side of the counter that Delafos has thrown herself over to reach him. As polite as he is tense, he says, “Please let go.”
“Oh, don’t be shy—”
I do not track my movements.
I genuinely do not know how I end up fully out of the backroom.
But I do. I end up right at the front counter, stick my hand in the void backpack Samson is holding for me, and grip my Crystal Gem Blade.
Delafos launches off Samson the moment an edge of sparkle tickles her chin. “He told you to let go,” I mutter.
She swears. “I’m sorry.” She cusses. “It’s not that serious.”
“It is, actually. Touching someone without permission or cause is called harassment.” My tired eyes narrow. “And harassment is serious.”
Before I’m content with Delafos’s apology, the bell on the door rings, so I drag my attention to Bruce.
An unsolicited ugh escapes me before my filter—which, you should know, is asleep—can catch it.
Samson whispers, “Highly discouraged…” as he sets a hand at the small of my back.
Bruce’s double take on my sword is the only thing actually keeping me from throwing it at him, I’m pretty sure.
Well. Or maybe it’s because he’s yet to open his mouth.
The second he scoffs, I tighten my grip so my blade won’t mysteriously lodge itself in his forehead.
“Samson.” He stalks up to us. “You ran yesterday.”
“Yup.” Samson, who has been absolutely chipper (for him) all morning, nods. “Because murder is highly discouraged.”
Another scoff, which has me rolling my eyes. “As if you could murder me. Why don’t we have a real fight, so I can show your girl how pathetic you a—”
Samson grips my hand an inch before my sword can make contact with stupid Bruce’s stupid throat. “Discouraged,” he says, again, through a smile.
Man.
He really is chipper this morning.
“I wasn’t going to kill him,” I snap. “Just make him bleed a little.”
Yellow eyes aghast, Bruce blinks down at me.
Before he can catch the marble cosplaying as a brain in his head and figure out a reply, I snip, “I have a better idea than watching Samson pummel the living mulch out of you. Why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier into piranha-infested waters?”
His mouth falls open.
I use the flat of my blade to toss it closed, then I face Samson. “I’m ready to go. You just need to check out with bimbo over here. So make it snappy.”
Samson’s smile stretches as he turns to Delafos and reaches for his coin purse, murmuring, “I love when you speak your language.”
That is the cutest way ever to say he has no idea what a bimbo is, but he’s got the vibe, and he is here for the mood.
“We’re not don—” Bruce attempts, bolstering.
I tut. “Use it, and lose it, Brucey. It being your tongue.”
He sneers. “You’d love to see what I could do with my—”
I stomp. It takes me three of them to reach the moron, but I don’t care.
Wrapping my hand in the neckline of his chest piece, I jerk him down to my level, slashing my sword beside him so his crazed eyes focus more on the array of magic spilling from my blade than on me.
“Let’s make one thing impeccably clear: I’d love to see you castrated, and that’s about the most intimate situation I’m interested in where you’re concerned. Capeesh?”
Samson gently removes my hand from Bruce’s armor and fits our fingers together. “Capeesh. Another new one.”
Totally fair. It makes sense that this world doesn’t have an Italian mafia history to have obtained that.
“We’re all set, if you’re done threatening the rubbish.”
More pissed than is perhaps wholly sane, I mutter, “Highly discouraged.”
Samson says, “That’s right.”
Hefting a sigh, I tuck my sword back into my void bag, which results in Bruce’s mouth falling open again.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“A princess from a foreign country, and Samson’s wife.” I snuff. “Get over it.”
Chuckling, Samson skirts us around Bruce and toward the door. “Also, very sleepy.”
“Shut up.” My face heats as he escorts me outside. “I am not.”
“You really, really are.” His thumb caresses my knuckles. “It’s a pity. The first night in a while I can actually sleep, you’re exhausted.”
I blink my weary eyes, looking up at him. “You…could sleep last night?”
He nods. “Really well. I wonder if I need a different mattress at home.”
Really? Really? He’s not serious. “Right.” I crush his hand. “It was the mattress.”
Softly, beneath the hum of early risers as we begin our trek out of the city, Samson says, “I can fix the mattress. I can’t exactly expect a friend to sleep with me each night just because I’m starved for human affection, Lemonade.”
Because I am deranged with sleepiness, I draw his knuckles to my lips and kiss. “True. However, you can make that request of your wife.”
“Careful.” We reach the quiet dirt path and the scarred land, looking down the hill, toward the forest, the sea, home. “I might want to keep you if you continue talking like that out here.”
We descend, reaching the plain, and I murmur, “And what if I want to be kept?”
He stills.
A breeze teases the hair at his nape as his blue gaze fixes on me. “Do you?” he asks.
Heat overwhelms sleepiness, and my heart turns over. I can’t quite hold his gaze as I say, “M-maybe I wouldn’t mind.”
“Yes or no, Lemonade?”
Breathing in this moment is the hardest thing I have ever done.
And I used to live in Florida. You know. That place where the humidity in the air turns it into swamp water?
I say, “Yes.”
“Okay.” He kisses my forehead. “You just let me know if you ever change your mind.”
I mull those words over, battling the sheer confusion they cause, the entire trek back home. What does okay mean? What does changing my mind mean? Why would I change my mind about this? I do not understand.
I don’t understand throughout greeting Aurelia and thanking her for taking care of things for us while we were gone.
I don’t understand while Samson coordinates when she’ll be available and willing to bless my new armor, at cost, because—apparently—Aurelia is an angel who offers her abilities to everyone in town for free.
I did not realize that. I thought the price was included in the tools.
That’s it. I’m putting a pumpkin in her mailbox come autumn—it’s her favorite gift in the game.
Er. Or maybe I’ll put it on her doorstep.
Contrary to game logic, pumpkins likely do not fit in the mailboxes.
Turns out, after my wee thought jaunt into how I can repay Aurelia for being a wonderful human being, I still do not understand what Samson meant earlier.
While I’m wearily planning my Mid Summer crops in conjunction with planning Samson’s and my adventure into the Sky Dungeon once my armor has been blessed, I conclude that my lack of understanding might be linked to the sleep deprivation.
It’s an excellent theory that frees up some mind space to chit chat with my book after dinner on my bed.
“I just can’t believe I’m heading to the Sky Dungeon in a few days without so much as an expanded inventory. This is wild. Feels like a YouTuber challenge or something.”
What makes you think your inventory is limited?
I blink at those words.
I flip to my inventory page.
I stare at the single line of boxes, indicating the space I have available.
Currently, since I unpacked my hygiene kit and overnight things from the city trip, all I have in my bag is my sword.
I flip back to the quest page, which currently contains chat, no quests, because the stupid thing refused to put anything I want to do on the list. Puppy Rescue, therefore, got vetoed but minutes ago.
Smiling, I say, “I’m sorry. I must be misreading you. What are you implying?”
You really think, after shoving hundreds of rocks and dozens of trees in your void bag, that it has a space cap?
I stare.
How does that make sense?
I don’t know. My bag is a portable black hole. You will excuse me for not exactly knowing what is or isn’t logical here. “I’m going to tear out your pages and feed them to the cows. Why in the world wouldn’t you tell me this?”
I like watching you scrabble. :) Builds character.
I am actually going to commit a highly discouraged activity. “Apologize for being a horrible person.”
I’m not a person, though, am I?
It’s got me there. “Apologize for being a bad friend.”
We’re friends?
“Um. Ow. My heart. Of course we’re friends? Are we not friends? Books are totally friends, even when they don’t reply.”
Hm.
That’s sad.
I feel sad for you.
I huff. “You suck.”
<3
Setting the conversation aside, I skip myself to Samson’s profile page and discover he’s still a load of question marks beside the pressed cherry blossom petal.
My heart sinks, but I try not to let it get to me since I’ve gained a heart with Aurelia, which is nice, maybe we can be friends since my stinky book hates me.
The pages flip themselves back to the vacant quests, and I frown. “What do you want? Are you going to apologize now?”
It doesn’t.
Instead Puppy Rescue 0/2 appears.
I sigh. “Fine. I forgive you for your heinous behavior.”
A knock sounds at my door, so I jump, closing my journal.
“Lemonade?” Samson calls.
My sleepy heart rate picks up. “Yes?”
“I’m ready for bed. Are you?”
Cautious, I return my book to my bag and make my way to the door, opening it to find Samson—bare chest out—filling the frame. “I…uh…yes. I am?”
He nods. “Okay.”
My brain restarts its assessment of that word, confuddled to the max. The spikes of confusion peak when, as Samson turns, he takes my hand, and totes me into his room.
Realization of everything dawns on me moments too late to fully process what I, in my sleepiness, have done.
This is equally the best and worst thing to ever have happened.
My goodness.
I have signed myself up to be Samson’s platonic teddy bear until I say otherwise.
How am I even supposed to feel about this?
I…I don’t think I’m ever going to sleep again.
His arms close around me while I’m wrestling with the inevitable: death by sleep deprivation.
I think I have approximately two weeks. That’s fine.
Two weeks of sheer bliss is more than enough.
More than I would have gotten in Florida.
More than my astigmatism wants for me.
Speaking of…did I hallucinate Samson taking off my glasses and putting them on his nightstand?
Not feeling them on my face, I squint through the pitch dark.
Hm.
Another of life’s great mysteries.
The heat from Samson’s skin soaks into mine as his lips brush my forehead and he cuddles. “Thank you for this…” he whispers into my hair.
I swallow my heart, but the pound of my pulse remains lodged in my throat. “No. It’s no problem, Shoulders.”
“I can’t explain how much it means to me.” He squeezes. “I’ve never had someone…” He frees a breath. “I already told you. I guess I never realized how much I craved the connection, though.”
The connection.
Of another person.
For some reason, that makes my heart settle.
“You’re not the only one,” I say.
“I’m sorry. It’s hard.”
“Yeah.” I tilt my head against his body, let the steady rhythm of his breaths coax me away from the adrenaline rush his nearness causes. “It’s the worst, not knowing what you’re missing, just knowing that something is definitely not right.”
“Knowing that someone understands means a lot to me, Lemonade. I’m so glad you’re my friend.”
Friend.
I would be so much more than his friend if he wanted me to, but if being his friend means sharing moments like these where we both feel safe without anything else, that’s enough. That is, actually, so much more than enough.
Because friends—or at least the friends in the kinds of friendships I have always wanted to have—love each other.
So much. The friendships that always entranced me growing up were the ludicrous ones in stories about kids who would die for one another.
The stupid blood oaths of brothership in the woods.
The silent moments of we are forever. The enchantment of overcoming anything, together.
I have always, always, wanted someone who I could be myself around. I’ve craved someone who loves all my ugliest pieces so much they think even my scars are beautiful.
Slowly, I turn more into Samson’s embrace, lifting my hand to the puckered flesh on his chest as I do.
He shudders, holding me tighter.
Secure there, I close my eyes and sleep.