Shairin

Your hand trailed up his abs—you could feel the firmness of his body, honed by years of training, beneath your fingers. Your palm slid to his tattooed chest. The jewelry around his neck glinted in the moonlight. Your other hand, out of habit, reached for your own neck, beginning to scratch it—a habit you hadn't even noticed.

Looking at him, at your sleeping friend and comrade, seemed forbidden. He's asleep, unsuspecting, and yet your hand is already on his neck, squeezing lightly. His deep sleep is interrupted, but you don't notice. The skin on his neck is scratched almost to the point of bleeding.

Shairin looks at you from under half-closed eyes. He tugs your hand toward him, and you cover him with your body. With a yawn, he falls asleep again, and your heart pounds against the backdrop of his even breathing—it feels like it will stop any moment.

The itch doesn't go away, but Shayrin holds your hands in a death grip. There's nowhere to run—all you can do is lie on him, look at his sleeping face in the moonlight, inhale his scent. Burying your face in the crook of his neck, you freeze, afraid to wake him with a single movement.

It's going to be a long night. And you don't feel like sleeping at all.