He looked at me for a long moment. The fading light caught the angles of his face, the dark of his eyes. I wanted to grab his face and pull him down. I wanted that almost-smile against my mouth.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow.”
I took the dogs home, fed them, sat on my couch with both of them piled on my lap, and thought about the weight of Holden's arm around my shoulders. The way I'd fit under his chin. The way neither of us had pulled away even when no one was watching, no audience to fool.
I scratched behind Marceline's ears and let myself want it, even if it would hurt like hell later.
Holden
The old theater on Maple Street had been showing movies since 1952. Original red velvet seats, art deco fixtures, and a vintage popcorn machine that had outlasted three owners. The place smelled like butter and dust and history, and I'd loved it since I was eight years old and moved to this town after my grandmother came and got me.
I didn't notice much about it tonight. I was too aware of the man sitting next to me.
Jamie had shown up at the shop that morning with coffee and a smile that made my chest tight. We'd worked through a steady stream of customers, nothing overwhelming, but enough to keep us moving, the Valentine's orders stacking up for next week. Around noon he'd mentioned the theater's seven o'clock showing and suggested we make it our required date night.
“Part of the deal,” he'd said. “One weekend date, remember? Might as well do something fun.”
The movie was some thriller I'd stopped following twenty minutes in. The theater was half-empty, our row completely empty except for us. No one to perform for. No reason to sit this close.
Jamie's hand found mine in the dark.
His fingers laced through mine like it was natural. I stopped, my pulse kicking up, my awareness narrowing to that point of contact. His warm palm against mine. His thumb resting on the back of my hand.
We'd held hands before. At the Copper Kettle, that first day. On the sidewalk outside the Tavern. Brief touches, performative ones, usually with an audience.
This was different. The theater was dark. No one was watching.
This was for us.
My thumb traced a circle on his palm. I didn't decide to do it; my hand just moved, slow and deliberate.
Jamie shivered.
He was always cold. I'd noticed it at the shop, how he always seemed chilled. I lifted my arm and pulled him against my side.
Jamie made a small sound, surprise or relief, and tucked himself under my arm like he'd done it a hundred times before. His head settled against my shoulder. His hand stayed in mine, pressed between our bodies, and his free hand came up to rest on my chest, right over my heart.
The movie played. I didn't watch it.
Instead I was looking at the way the flickering light caught his profile. The curve of his cheek, the soft line of his mouth, the hair curling behind his ear where it had grown too long. His eyes were on the screen, but his fingers were tracing absent patterns on my shirt.
Why did this feel so comfortable and so scary at the same time?
Something about him made me think of sunflowers. The way they turned toward light without thinking about it, the way they were bright and warm and impossible to ignore. Adoration, my grandmother used to say. Loyalty. I'd never put sunflowers in a sympathy arrangement because they didn't belong there. They belonged in places where people were celebrating something. Where people were alive.
I cut the thought off before it could fully form. That kind of thinking would only get me in trouble.
This doesn't feel like performing anymore.
The thought surfaced before I could stop it. Because it didn't. It felt like something I wanted, which was terrifying. I didn't let myself want things. I knew better than that.
But Jamie fit against me like he was made for it. His warmth seeped through my shirt. His breathing evened out, soft and steady.
When the credits rolled, he turned his head back to look at me, and those bright eyes were wide awake.
“Good movie,” he said.
