29
Sophie
Ashton’shandsarewarmon the back of my legs.
I’m nervous going through the first doorway because even the slightest brush of my foot will hurt. But Ashton is careful. Gentle even.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been carried piggyback-style, and Ashton tells me to hang on several times. My fingers tighten on his shoulders rather than winding around his neck.
I don’t know how to hold on to him.
“You good?” he asks as we reach the end of the tunnel.
“Yep.” My voice is strained, and too bright. Being this close—being held by him—is throwing me off. “You can put me down.”
“I don’t think so.” I tighten my legs around him as he uses one of his hands to open the big door. Lights flood the tunnel behind us, and I squint at the brightness.
He carries me to the elevator, and it’s not until the doors close behind us that he lets me down. Backing up into the corner of the elevator, he squats slightly. “Careful,” he instructs. “Use the wall to balance.”
I do as he says, resting my weight on my left foot and lean back against the wall. But still, Ashton is there, twisting around with hands on my hips until I can position the crutches. “I’m good,” I say, a little breathlessly.
“You sure?” His fingers tighten, and dark blue eyes search my face for signs of discomfort until they meet mine.
He’s very close to me. He’s no longer holding me, but our bodies are… close. So close that I notice a few freckles scattered along the apples of his cheeks. They’re very faint and very… soft, like I gently flicked my smallest brush with the tiniest bit of burnt umber.
I can only nod, and with another glance, he straightens. “Good. They’d throw me in the dungeons if I let you fall.”
“You won’t let me fall,” I tell him. “And besides, I told you they really don’t use the dungeons anymore.”
“I don’t want to be the one they resurrect it for,” he says darkly. He stands in front of me for a moment.
His hand still rests on my hip. He flexes his fingers, and I glance down. I’m solid, using my crutches to support myself, but Ashton is still there. Touching me. Making sure I don’t fall.
“Do you want to push the button?” I ask, well aware of my face flaming.
“What? Yeah… the button.”
He moves away from me.
I can still feel his hands on my legs. It’s not surprising when I consider how I haven’t felt hands on my legs—hands anywhere—for a very long time.
Martin kissed me after our date, but it was a chaste peck on the cheek. Before that, Abe Wannamaker kissed me, but hedrank a pitcher of beer all by himself, so the whole thing was a bit sloppy. And his hands may have started to wander, but he was also leaning too far to the right, so I politely stopped the wandering hands.
Before that… I don’t remember.
I do remember, but they’re not worth bringing up. I didn’t feel the imprint of hands long after they moved. I didn’t constantly wonder what it would be like to kiss them, like I do with Ashton.
I watch the movement of his lips like I stare at an empty canvas, visualizing what I want to paint.
Have I visualized kissing Ashton?
Maybe.
He follows me back to my room, most likely to make sure I get there in one piece, but now I wonder.
And then I berate myself for wondering.
It’s late in the afternoon, the time Ashton usually leaves. I’m not sure what he does at night because for some reason, I’ve never asked.
