"I'll write a strongly worded letter."
He laughed again, and I swallowed the sound, kissing him through it. His hand moved from my chest to my jaw, fingers tracing the line of stubble I hadn't bothered to shave.
When we finally pulled apart, we were both breathing hard. Pickle's lips were swollen, his hair a disaster where my fingers had been, and his eyes dark and dazed.
"Was that okay?" he asked.
I answered by kissing him again.
Firmer this time. More deliberate. I cupped his face with both hands, felt the sharp line of his jaw and the soft skin just below his ear. He melted into my touch—actually melted, like his bones had given up on the concept of structure—and when I pulled back enough to breathe, he chased my mouth with a soft whine.
"Okay," he said shakily. "Okay. That answered my question."
"Good."
He swallowed hard. "I should go inside."
"Yeah, I guess so."
Neither of us moved.
"I have a game tomorrow," he said.
"I know."
"And you have documentary things. Camera things."
"Yes."
"So this is probably really stupid."
"Probably."
He looked at me for a long moment. "Goodnight, Adrian," he said.
"Goodnight, Pickle."
He extracted himself from my lap—graceless, all elbows and knees, bumping his head on the roof—and opened the door. The cold rushed in, sharp and sobering. He stepped out into the snow, Crocs immediately disappearing. He turned back toward me.
"Hey," he said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you stayed. The two extra days." He shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunching against the wind. Snow was already catching in his hair. "Even if it's stupid."
"Me too," I said. "Even if it's stupid."
He grinned one more time—bright and real—and then he was gone, trudging toward the building with the green awning, leaving footprints in the fresh snow.
I sat, parked at the curb, until he disappeared inside.
When I put the car in drive and pulled away slowly, I watched the building shrink in my rearview mirror.
The snow kept falling.
Chapter seven
Pickle
