I looked at him.
At this wreck of a man, sprawled across the couch like he belonged in pieces, yet somehow, impossibly, he had burrowed under my skin.
"That's enough sentimental bullshit for one night."
I snapped upright, yanking Noah off my lap. He grunted, a half-hearted protest, but didn't move.
"Come on," I said, bending down to grab his arm. "You need to sleep."
I tried to lift him.
He was like a sack of wet cement, completely dead weight, his head lolling, arms dangling uselessly.
I sighed, staring down at him. The lines of his face softened even in unconsciousness, teasing me with vulnerability I didn't know what to do with.
"You're making this difficult."
No response. Of course.
I bent again, sliding one arm under his knees and the other around his back, lifting.
Then stopped.
This was too intimate. Too much like carrying a bride over a threshold or some other nauseatingly sentimental crap.
