And I’m walking right into it.
His spine’s pressed to the side of the house to hold him up.
Head back.
Eyes closed.
Hands on his hips.
Then he crumbles forward?—
forearms on his thighs, fighting for a breath.
And I step closer, wet wool gulped by snow.
“Andrew.”
It slips out above a whisper, apologetic.
I shouldn’t have come. I overstepped.
Then he lifts his head, eyes blinking hard.
Dean Martin’s still at it through the walls,
crooning on about howeverybody loves somebody.
We stare at each other, both of us trying to shove words into the other without saying shit out loud.
He bites the inside of his cheek,
cold air fogging out when he exhales.
I take one step closer.
“You want me outta here?”
His gaze hangs heavy
as if I already left all over again.
His eyes drop to my soaked socks submerged in the snow, and his shoulders fall,
then he erases the distance,
his hands sliding under my thighs,
lifting me out of the snow.
My legs wrap around him.
His breath shakes against my collarbone,
then drifts up and floods my throat.
His warmth and cologne wraps around me.
He adjusts his grip on me,
