My body complains. I’m hot and breathy and all shaky hands, the sweater rucked up, mouth swollen, and left hanging by a tree.
He locks the deadbolt, then looks back at me.
The scene that greets him must be a lot to take in. My hair is wild, the blanket is on the floor and I’m standing there, trying to pretend I’m absolutely fine.
“Are you okay?” he asks, running a hand through his hair.
“Yes,” I lie. “A branch just wanted your attention.”
He scrubs a hand over his face, inhales slowly, then exhales slower before walking back to the couch. Then he stands there for a second, like he doesn’t know what to say or do.
I help.
“We should...” I gesture at the window, at the fire, at the entire situation. “Pause?”
He looks relieved and wrecked at the same time. “Yeah.”
The air in the room turns cold, thick with the taste of what we almost did. What I’m still dying to do.
I tug the sweater down and sit on my hands, so they won’t do anything stupid like reach for him again. He sinks beside me, not touching me, breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
Bear lifts his head, yawns, and plops it right on Red’s knee.
“Sorry,” Red blurts out.
“For what?!” I turn to him, shaking my head.
You can’t be sorry for that. Not ever.
“Pushing it too far.” He shakes his head once. “I said it wasn’t a good idea.”
“You also said people are idiots. We can revise earlier statements.”
He almost smiles. “Are you sure about that?”
I think about it. About my body, my fear, my years of being told I’m too much. Then I think about the noise in his head. About the way he asked three times if I was okay.
“Yeah. I’m sure.” I swallow. “But I like that you keep asking.”
His mouth makes that quick curve again. “I’ll keep asking.”
“Good. And we’ll keep pausing when a literal tree tries to interrupt us.”
He huffs, the sound low and warm. “Deal.”
We sit there, catching our breath, pretending to watch the fire. My lips tingle. My core aches in a way that’s going to haunt me all afternoon. His hands flex once, twice, like they’re remembering where they’ve been.
“Tell me something else. Something small.”
He leans back, eyes on the ceiling. “I hate licorice.”
I gasp. “We can’t be friends.”
“Is it a deal breaker?”
“I’ll forgive it. The worst haircut?”
He exhales, almost a laugh, almost a groan. “I buzzed it myself once. Looked like I lost a fight with a lawn mower.”
