“Gibs, for the last time, stop bleeding spooning me!” was the first thing I heard my best friend say on Wednesday morning, swiftly followed by the heel of his foot digging into my shin. “Okay, ow,” I huffed, blinking my eyes open when pain ricocheted up my leg. “That fucking hurt, Cap. You know I bruise like a peach.” “It was supposed to,” Johnny grumbled, shaking my arm off before pulling himself up into a sitting position. “Since when have I ever given you the impression that I’m the little spoon in this relationship?” “And I am?” “Well, it isn’t bleeding me!”
