Instead, he lets his hand fall palm-up on the bed between us.
“If you want,” he murmurs. “If touch helps.”
I look at his hand as though it’s a test.
It’s not. But my nervous system doesn’t know the difference.
Slowly, I lay my hand in his. His fingers curl around mine, warm and careful, as if he’s holding something precious and breakable.
Some of the buzzing in my head quiets.
“I hate that she can do this to me,” I say. “Not just the paper. The way her voice lives in my head. The way I can’t turn it off.”
“Then let my voice be louder,” he says softly. “For tonight.”
I release a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
We sit in silence for a few breaths. Our joined hands rest on the bed between us. Every few seconds, my thumb twitches, making small abortive taps against his skin. He just holds on.
The quiet stretches, not uncomfortable exactly, just… charged.
“I meant what I said,” I murmur. “I didn’t ask you here for distraction. I didn’t—”
I stop, because there’s a whole other truth under that statement, one I don’t know how to say.
I didn’t ask you here for distraction. But I am very,veryaware of your body right now.
His thumb moves once, tracing a small arc over the back of my hand like he’s mapping fault lines.
“I know,” he says. “You asked for company. To not hold this alone.”
He turns his head and looks at me fully. His green eyes are steadier than I feel.
“But wanting two things at same time?” he adds gently. “That is allowed. Company and touch. Safety and heat.” He hesitates. “We just choose which one leads.”
Something low and molten flickers in my belly.
My brain runs triage: exhaustion. A half-fried nervous system. A career on the brink. Parents who think I’m insane. An advisor who thinks I’m a resource to mine.
And sitting right here next to me, warm and solid and willing, is the one person who has consistently believed me, believed in me, and never once asked me to be less.
I swallow. “What if I… want both?”
He inhales slowly. “Then we go slow. And stop if it feels wrong. If we run from what feels bad, instead of choosing what feels good.”
The weight of it settles low and unfamiliar. “You say that like you’ve thought about it.”
“I have,” he says, and that almost-smile is back, small and devastating. “Every night since dance party.”
A laugh slips out of me, startled. “You mean since we tripped over each other like newborn foals?”
His mouth curves, slow, warm, a little wicked.
“No,” he says. “I mean since I held you.”
The words land, stopping me cold.
He goes on, voice dropping into something low and honest: “You are very small. Easy to lift. Easy to carry.” A beat. “Hard not to keep holding you.”
