I listen to his heartbeat and I know with absolute certainty that whatever comes next, I will fight for our life together. The way Tex fights. Standing up. Feet planted. Eyes open. With Tex right beside me.
"I love you, Tex."
"I love you too, Stormy. Every morning I'll tell you. Remember?"
"I'll never forget."
Chapter 26: Tex
Stormy won't stop touching me.
That's not a complaint. I mean it as the most incredible development in the history of human contact. The kid who flinched when Sheila put a hand on his shoulder, who pulled away on a ladder when I tried to keep him from falling, who always kept a careful distance between himself and another human being, will not stop putting his hands on me.
The best thing about it is that he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
It starts in the morning while he's at the counter eating eggs. I walk past him to the coffee maker, and his hand reaches out and catches the hem of my shirt. Just holds it gently. Two fingers on the fabric, light as breath, while he takes another bite of eggs with his other hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I pour my coffee and his fingers stay hooked in my shirt until I move back to the counter. When I sit down next to him, his hand moves to my thigh, resting there, warm through the denim.
It continues all day, and I couldn't be happier about it. I'm behind the bar restocking the cooler and he walks past, trailing his fingers across my shoulders, a three-second touch that sends heat down my spine. I'm carrying a stack of folding chairs across the parking lot and he falls into step beside me, his hand finding the small of my back, steadying me like I'm the one who needs steadying, which I don't. But the touch of his palm on the strip of skin above my waistband where my shirt has ridden up makes me almost drop the chairs anyway.
He brushes my hair back from my forehead when it falls in my eyes. He rubs the knot between my shoulder blades when I've been hunched over paperwork. He hooks his chin over my shoulder when I'm cooking, pressing his chest against my back. I can feel the heat of him through both our shirts and the smell of him, clean and warm with that hint of salt from the beach air. It all fills my head until I can't remember what I'm supposed to be doing.
He's learning touch the way a person learns a new language late in life. Full, total immersion. Every surface, every texture, every point of contact. He's discovering that hands can do things other than hurt, that skin against skin can mean safety instead of danger, that reaching for someone and having them reach back is not a trap. It's a conversation. And he's having that conversation with his entire body, all day, in every room with me.
I watch him do it and my heart aches in the best possible way. The reversal of it. The distance this kid has traveled, not in miles but in the space inside himself, from the scared kid who could barely speak to the man who hooks his fingers in my shirt while he eats breakfast.
That distance is everything.
It's his whole story.
Around two in the afternoon, I'm on the back deck checking the railing that's still loose from the hurricane when Stormy comes outside. He's in the cutoff shorts and the Big Tex's Roadhouse t-shirt and flip-flops. The Florida sun has turned his skin a shade of gold that makes his eyes look almost green.
He's filled out in the weeks since he arrived. Still lean, still sharp at the edges, but the ribs don't show anymore, and his arms have definition now, muscle built from hauling tables and sheetrock.
He leans against the railing next to me and looks out at the water. The wind pushes his hair across his forehead and the light catches the pale strands. I stare at him because looking at him is the best thing I do all day.
"You're staring," he says, grinning at me.
"I'm supervising."
"Supervising what? I'm standing here, doing nothing."
"Exactly. You're standing there looking all sexy like that and someone has to supervise it. It's a damn safety issue, Stormy. I should get a lifeguard whistle. Just stand here on the deck with a whistle.'Attention: Super hot guy leaning on railing. All personnel be advised. This is not a drill.'"
He bumps his shoulder against my arm. The smile flickers. The one I live for. He reaches up and pushes my hair back from my forehead. His fingers linger at my temple, tracing down to my jaw, running through my beard. I close my eyes and go still the way I've learned to go still for him, not frozen, just present, letting him explore my body at his own pace.
"I like your face," he says with a solemn expression.
"Glad to hear it. I like your face too."
"No, I mean I like touching your face. I like that I can just do that now. Reach up and touch you whenever I want. It feels like a special gift. Do you mind?"
"No, I certainly don't mind. I love it. And I'm very glad you feel that way because you can do that whenever you want for the rest of your life. I promise to never get tired of it. My body is yours to touch anytime. I love it. As far as I'm concerned, there can never be too much touching."
His hand stays on my jaw while his thumb traces my cheekbone. His eyes are following his own fingers, watching the way they move through my beard, and the concentration on his face is the same focus he brings to everything.
I turn my head and kiss his palm.
