Chapter Twenty-Eight

When Bo wakes up it is with an arm around his waist and a warm hand splayed across his stomach. Oscar’s breath is on his shoulder, the smaller man’s steady exhales muss the hair that has grown a bit longer than usual behind his ear. He is overwhelmed by the earthy smell of Oscar, all oakwood and soft dirt after it rains.

“Petrichor - the word comes from petra, which means stones, and ichor, the ethereal blood of the Greek Gods. Plants release an oil that stops their seeds from germinating when it would be too difficult to survive.” Bo’s voice was soft, slight. He didn't mean to keep speaking, but it was obvious that Oscar was not bothered. His insistence to finish the quote overtook his urge to be quiet. “The oil soaks into the pores of the stones, and is set free with water. They say it’s the smell of waiting, paid off.”

To Bo, there could not be a better way to wake up, with a quote and Osc

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