My chest tightens.
I move quietly, like the room might shatter if I breathe too loud. I kneel and begin gathering her notes one by one, careful to keep everything exactly how she left it. I don’t read them. I don’t need to. This is hers. I just stack them neatly so nothing slips out of order.
I carry them upstairs and place them on the desk in her room. I straighten the chair. Adjust the lamp. Small things. Necessary things.
Then I go back down to wake her.
“Sabrina,” I murmur softly.
Nothing.
I try again, a little closer. “Sweetheart.” I brush her red hair out of her face.
She stirs just enough to swat my hand away, rolling further into the couch with a quiet, sleepy huff. Her hair spills over her face, hiding her eyes.
I almost let her stay there.
Almost.
But that couch is awful. I know because I’ve fallen asleep on it once and paid for it for two days afterward. She’d wake up stiff and sore and irritated, and she doesn’t need that.
So I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back and lift her carefully.
She doesn’t wake.
Instead, she melts.
Her head drops against my chest, her hands curling into my shirt like they’ve always belonged there. She presses closer, burrowing in instinctively, and something low and fierce twists in my gut.
This. This is the part I’m afraid of.
Halfway up the stairs, she shifts. Blinks. Looks up at me through heavy lashes.
There’s a sleepy smile there—soft and unguarded and dangerous.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep. “For carrying me to bed.”
“You’re welcome,” I say quietly.
I lay her down gently, tucking the blanket around her shoulders, making sure she’s warm. She turns onto her side, already drifting again, her breathing evening out as if this is exactly where she belongs.
I stand there longer than I should.
Watching her.
Wanting things I’ve already told myself I can’t have.
Eventually, I turn away and cross the hall to my room.
The door clicks shut behind me, and the silence settles heavy and unwelcome. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, hating the space between us. Hating that I put it there. Hating that part of me wonders if she hates it too.
I lie back and close my eyes.
A Tattooed Welder
Sabrina
Iwake up warm.
