Knife's Edge

CHAPTER SEVEN

I glance over at the clock with a sigh, frowning when I realise that I'll have to leave soon. I don't want to move, I'm too comfortable and Dylan is doing a great job of keeping me warm with his arm wrapped around my waist. We listen to the music from the TV credits as they roll down the screen in blissful silence.

"We'll have to make a move soon," Dylan voices my thoughts as he wraps his arm tighter around me, the bed creaking as he shifts slightly. "It's getting late."

"Yeah," I agree glumly, turning over to face him with a frown still in place.

When he sees my unhappy expression, a soft smile takes over his face. He leans forward to kiss my nose lightly.

"Cheer up, you'll see me tomorrow," he reminds me. "Besides, you need to get some sleep before your exam."

I groan at that and move to hide my face against his chest. I'd almost forgotten about the Sociology exam tomorrow afternoon.

"Will you help me with some last-minute revision in the morning?" I ask, moving back to look at him. I run my hand absentmindedly along his chest, wrapped up in thoughts of what horrors tomorrow's exam might bring. "I don't feel ready."

"Of course," he agrees. "We've got second period free tomorrow. We'll have plenty of time."

"Thanks."

"I really have missed you, you know?" he murmurs, his eyes making me melt as they look into mine.

"I know," I reply, my lips morphing into a smile. I lean forward and press a kiss to his lips before moving back again. "I've missed you, too."

Feeling content, untroubled, and completely at ease, I realise that I never want this night to end. I'm not ready to go home, even if the time – little bitch that it is – is telling me I should.

Prolonging the moment for a few minutes longer, I roll onto my back and stretch my arms above my head, my toes pointing to the foot of the bed as far as they'll reach. I feel like a cat that's just woken up from the best sleep of its life, stretching out its entire body as it works up the will to move.

Unfortunately, when I feel a familiar pop, I realise that I've stretched too far.

"Shit," I hiss out in pain, rolling onto my side and curling in on myself as a familiar fire sears through my left shoulder. It feels like the muscles are snapping, pulling taut and seizing up as I flop around like a fish out of water, trying to find the least painful position to lie in. Every time I move it just hurts more. "Shit, shit, fuck!"

"Jade, are you okay?" Dylan asks, his voice worried as he reaches a hand towards me. "Is it your shoulder again?"

"Don't," I snap, my pain making the word come out harsher than intended. "Stop moving; don't knock me."

It feels like my arm is being ripped clean off, leaving nothing but a mess of mangled, fleshy tendons. I'm scared that the slightest of touches – the slightest of nudges – will only serve to make it worse. My rotator cuff is completely fucked – it has been for years. This is not a new pain.

Breathe through the pain, Jade. Just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

After a few minutes of Dylan and I staying statue-worthy still (I'm pretty sure the guy's not even breathing) the pain begins to dull. The muscles and tendons start to relax, the fire simmering down into a more bearable ache.

I roll my shoulder gently, testing it, and am rewarded with the most unattractive clunk. I feel like an eighteen-year-old trapped in an eighty-year-old's body – I hate it.