12 Zara
Frank Wins
I wake up to a heartbeat under my ear that shouldn’t feel this normal.
It takes my brain a second to boot. There’s warmth everywhere, fabric against my cheek, an arm heavy over my waist, and a chest moving under my face when he breathes in.
Cass.
Last night crashes back into place so fast my stomach twists. The night terror. The way my voice shook when I told him everything I’ve never said out loud. The way he held me like he was trying to keep all the pieces of me together with his bare hands.
I crack one eye open, looking around carefully. We’re still in his bed with the curtains mostly drawn and gray morning light washing the room. His alarm clock on the nightstand glows 8:02 a.m.
His arm is still around me, hand resting at my hip almost as if he never moved. My leg is tucked over his like I tried to fuse us together in my sleep.
Yup. Love that for my dignity.
When I look up, I notice his eyes are open, which I was not expecting. They aren’t wide or alert, just awake and staring at the ceiling like he’s thinking of all the world’s problems.
“You’re staring at nothing,” I mumble, my voice scratchy. “That’s illegal this early.”
His gaze drops immediately, as if I caught him doing something wrong. Up close, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, deeper than usual. There’s little red veins in the whites, and a tired sag at the corners of his mouth.
Guilt hits like a sack of bricks.
“Did I wake you up from a deep sleep last night?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
He huffs softly. “Yeah.”
I wince internally. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He says it quickly, almost automatic. His brows pull together just a little. “You really think I’m gonna be mad about that?”
“I mean…” I trail off, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of his T-shirt. “You were asleep for once. It’s like catching a rare Pokémon. I kind of ruined the moment.”
Cass hardly sleeps. Insomnia, anxiety, thoughts that keep him riled up—you name it. It keeps him from sleeping.
Sleep and Cass have never been good friends. It’s a wonder Cass can function the way he does with how little rest he actually gets. He hardly ever gets to that deep sleep state, and if he does, it’s not usually for very long.
He snorts under his breath, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“Did you go back to sleep?” I press, ignoring the way my chest tightens.
There’s a moment of silence where he could lie and I’d probably let him.
“No,” he answers honestly instead.
I frown up at him. “At all?”
He shakes his head enough that I can feel it against the pillow. “I slept a bit before, but I couldn’t turn my brain off after. It happens,” he admits quietly with a shrug of his shoulders, like it’s no big deal.
“So you just… stayed awake after I woke you up?” I ask, both surprised and guilty. "Holding me while I drooled?"
“You didn’t drool,” he gives me this face, lips twitching at the corner. “Much.”
I elbow him in the ribs. He grunts, the twitch at his lips turning into a full smile. The guilt gets heavier. I can feel it pressing behind my eyes, threatening tears again, but I shove it down.
No crying. We hit quota last night.
“Okay, that’s it,” I announce, shifting so I’m more on my side facing him. “New plan. You’re going back to sleep.”
“I’m fine,” he argues, which is hilarious because his face looks like the before photo in a sleep-deprivation PSA.
“You look like a raccoon,” I tell him. “You need sleep.”
He rolls his eyes. “It’s eight.”
“Exactly. It’s too early for you to be doing your broody rooftop vigilante routine. Come on.” I lay on my back and tap my sternum with two fingers. “Put your head here.”
His brows jump. “On your… chest.”
“Yes, Cass. On my chest.” I wiggle my fingers like I’m presenting a prize. “Premium pillow service. Ten out of ten, would recommend.”
He gives me a look, somewhere between exasperated and amused. “Pretty sure you’re the one who had a nightmare. I’m not gonna make you hold my weight like I’m some sad Victorian heroine.”
“First of all,” I say, trying not to laugh at the mental image he just conjured for me. “You are a sad Victorian heroine. Second, you already held me all night, so it’s my turn. Third, you look like if I let you drive us home like this, you’d start hallucinating demon squirrels on the highway.”
His mouth twitches again, like he wants to fight a smile and is losing. “I don’t nap.”
“You do now.” I pat my chest again. “Come on. I’ll even do sleepy rubs. I’ll have you out in five minutes. Tops.”
“Sleepy rubs?” he questions flatly.
“Yes.” I wiggle my fingers in the air between us. “Patented Zae Relaxation Technique. Top-tier back scratches. Expert hair pets and the occasional face pokes if you start snoring. Just until eleven.”
He huffs out something like a laugh and scrubs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to wipe away the exhaustion and failing.
“This is backward,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t have to—”
“Hey.” I cut in, softer. “Last night, you stayed up and held me together while I fell apart. You don’t get to argue with me about letting me do the bare minimum for you. That’s illegal in at least three states.”
He looks at me for a long second, like he’s trying to see if I’m just saying it to make him feel better.
I hold his gaze and raise a brow.
“Ten,” he says finally.
“What?”
“You said before eleven,” he explains, like I should understand already. “Make it ten. I… need to face some stuff today.”
“Ten it is,” I nod, patting my chest a little too happily. “Head here, tough guy.”
He sighs like I’m asking him to walk into battle, then slowly shifts down the bed. His arm slides more around my waist as he moves, and then his head is right over my heart. He hesitates a second, clearly not sure where to put his face, so I cup the back of his head and guide him in.
“Like this,” I say, adjusting him so his ear is over my sternum. “There. Optimal listening to my internal organs. Very romantic.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, voice muffled in my shirt.
“Ridiculously adorable and you love it,” I shoot back.
He goes quiet, and I pretend I don’t notice.
His body is stiff at first, like he’s trying not to put his full weight on me.
I slide my hand into his hair and start combing my fingers through it slowly, scratching lightly at his scalp the way I know he likes.
My other hand rubs circles between his shoulder blades, as far as I can reach.
Little by little, I feel him start to unwind. His muscles lose some of that permanent tension. His fingers, which had bunched slightly in the fabric at my side, loosen and just rest there. His breathing steadies as I match him, in and out, the rhythm weirdly soothing for both of us.
He doesn’t sleep right away. I can tell, because every now and then his jaw flexes against my ribs, or his fingers twitch like he’s thinking about something he doesn’t want to say.
I don’t push it though. Last night I unloaded a whole horror movie on his chest. The least I can do is give him quiet now.
My brain tries to drift back to the words he said in the dark. You saved her. She was wrong. You’re the reason I haven’t done something that’d get me locked up again by now.
I curl my fingers a little in his hair, using the motion to anchor myself. I replay those sentences like they’re audio on loop, letting them smooth some of the damage those other words dug years ago.
Why didn’t you let me go? You’re selfish. You ruined it.
His version of me and my mother’s version of me are standing side by side in my brain, and for once, his is winning.
I’m not going anywhere. His words.
My chest aches in the best and worst way.
Yet all the while I keep running my fingers through his hair in slow, steady strokes.
After a few minutes, his weight settles heavier on me, his body finally giving in.
His breathing deepens, his hand sliding a little where it rests on my waist as his grip slackens completely.
“There you go,” I whisper, even though he can’t hear me. “That’s it, skater boy. Just pass out on my tits. So on brand of you.”
He doesn’t move.
I keep petting him until my own eyes start to feel heavy. I blink at the alarm clock—8:27 now. We’ve got time.
Eventually, boredom and affection team up and tell my brain to do stupid things, like trace the line of his nose with my fingertip. I start small, just outlining his profile, the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. His face is fully relaxed, something I hardly ever see.
Without the constant scowl or smirk, he looks… younger. It hits me how much he carries around all the time, how heavy it must be to live in his head. How easy he makes it seem when he’s busy carrying everyone else’s shit too.
He shifts a little but doesn’t wake, so I keep going, lightly tapping my finger against his cheekbone, tracing around his eye. That’s when I see them.
Freckles.
Tiny, stupid, adorable freckles, scattered faintly across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks. They’re so light you can barely see them under his tan, but they’re there, like someone took a fine brush and dotted him with stars and then tried to hide them again.
“Oh my God,” I breathe, way too delighted. “You have freckles.”
He doesn’t react, which is good, because I’m not trying to wake him up. I squint, counting them with my fingertip as I go, tapping each one so I don’t lose track. One near his temple, three in a cluster by his nose, a tiny one next to his nostril I somehow never noticed.
“This one’s Thor,” I decide quietly, touching the one near the corner of his right eye. It’s shaped just barely like a crooked little lightning bolt if I squint. “Thunder freckle. Very powerful.”
I find another one closer to his hairline. “You can be Totoro,” I whisper, because I’m nothing if not loyal to my fandoms. “My-Neighbor freckle.”
I keep going until I hit thirty-four, then thirty-five, then a tiny barely-there dot near his temple.
“You,” I say, tapping it, “are Frank.”