Mortification.
Bo is embarrassed about something, and the knowledge sets off an ache deep in my chest.
“I’ll go,” he mumbles when, only a moment ago, he was happily explaining his fascination with the advances from Dyson.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, worried about this change in him. “I liked hearing about the vacuums.”
There have been times I’ve accidentally rambled on about books for too long, not realizing I was boring my audience. I don’t want Bo to think I regretted asking him about his interests.
“Oh. I … I’m glad.”
But the chocolate shade remains, and from the way his pockets bulge, I can tell Bo has fisted his hands beneath the material.
This combination of events sparks a realization.
His hands. Hands with fingers that don’t look exactly human. Not with the webbing that stretches between them. The flexible pieces of skin that hint there may be something just a bit different about Bo Folan.
Maybe I should keep this theory to myself. But his suppressed distress has my bossy nature coming out. I want to demand that he realize there is nothing wrong with him.
But things are never that easy. Still, maybe I can help in a small way.
“Bo?”
His eyes flick to mine, then down to the floor tiles between his boots. “Yeah?”
“I want to see your hands.”
He flinches, and I know I’m right.
“You don’t … why?” The words are hesitant, then harsh, his vulnerability showing.
“Because I’m nosy,” I say with a shrug. “And because I think you want to hide them from me.”
His pink flush spreads up to his forehead. I find the color endearing. Reminds me of the rosy hue of longing that I might find in an aura.
“They’re monstrous,” Bo mutters, as if the simple words will make me accept what he believes to be a fact.
But that is merely an opinion, one I’m starting to think other people in Bo’s life formed for him. Pressed upon him when he was vulnerable enough to believe whatever someone who was supposed to care about him said.
“They’re different,” I volley back. “And interesting.” I step forward and lay my hands lightly on his elbows before tracing my touch down to his wrists. “And they’re a part of you.” My voice is quieter now as I circle my grip around his wrists. “And I like you.”
“You do?” he rasps.
I nod and give a small, questioning tug, trying to use my bossy bitch witch nature for good. “Show me, Bo.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At his slightly defiant words, I hide a smile.
The large monster—who, by all accounts, shouldn’t have reason to fear anything or anyone—takes a bracing breath before extending his hands to me.
Treating this as the gesture of trust it is, I don’t hesitate to cradle his palms in mine, just like when he let me sift through his emotions the other day. Only this time, I’m not studying the colorful aura surrounding the man. I’m entirely focused on the physical.
“Spread them, please,” I murmur, not wanting to force his fingers apart. That seems like too much of a violation.
If I’m going to examine this part of Bo, he needs to actively give it to me.
Another heavy breath on his end, and then he does.
