He stands and there's very little space between his face and mine now.
"And I know how much you'd hate that."He says it with a smirk that would make most women's knees cave, and mine are no exception.
But he's right.
I would hate that—the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the way it would put us face to face with nowhere to hide.This feels safer somehow, even though it doesn't really.
I sigh, roll my eyes, and grab the shoes he's holding up for me.
"Fine.But if I get too heavy?—"
I don't get to finish the sentence before he hoists me up onto his back effortlessly, his hands secure under my thighs, my arms around his shoulders.
The closeness is overwhelming.
I can feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, the way his muscles move as he walks.It's comfort and torture all at once.I have to fight the urge to rest my cheek against his shoulder the way I used to, to press my face into the curve of his neck and breathe him in.
We continue walking, and I notice his breathing stays steady and consistent, as if carrying me like this isn't affecting him at all.As if this is still normal, still easy.
But I can feel the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he's holding himself, and I know he's just better at hiding it than I am.
"You got tattoos," I say, studying the intricate designs on his forearms, partly to distract myself from how good he feels beneath me.
"I did."His voice is slightly strained, and I wonder if it's from my weight or something else entirely.
"Did they hurt?"
He laughs, and I feel the vibration through his back.
"That's what you want to ask me?"
The question hangs in the air because he's right—there are so many other things I want to ask, that I should ask.But I don't know where to start.
"Some of them did," he says when I don't respond."But after a while, you numb yourself to the pain.Or the pain numbs you, I guess."
He says it like he's only talking about tattoos, but I hear the subtext.I hear the theme that's run through his entire life—the way he's learned to make friends with pain, to find ways to coexist with it.
We walk the rest of the way mostly in silence, and when we reach my building, I slide down from his back reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth and security of being close to him.The loss of contact feels like a physical ache.
"Thank you," I say, fishing my keys from my clutch with unsteady hands."For walking me back."
"Anytime."He says it like he means it.
"Well, goodnight, Nate."
"Goodnight, Nora."
I unlock the door and step inside, closing it behind me before leaning against it heavily.
My thoughts are running rampant, crashing into each other like cars in a pileup.
So that should be it right?
We just leave it at that and continue on with our lives?
Logic tells me yes, to let this be what it is—a strange, beautiful coincidence that I'll remember fondly someday.
But then there's a knock on the door.
