This isn’t healthy.
Mom was tugging the blankets from Phil's bed while I watched him pull his shirt up over his head, shaking out his blonde hair. Soaked. He smelled almost metallic, proof that he’d been sick, but my eyes still roved over his bare torso, taking in his build. Thinner but still muscular. Lean muscle. I knew every inch of his body now, saw it all the time.
He’s sick.
When his eyes met mine, he swallowed, dropping his gaze to the floor. His cheeks were still a little red, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair, rolling down his skin.
I shouldn’t be looking at him like this. He’s sick.
Forcing my eyes to the floor, I leaned back against the wall as he walked out of the room, ignoring the urge to follow him.
Sick. He’s sick.
Scratchin
