Inside the truck, our hands collided over the center console when I reached for the heater. My instinct was to pull back or make a joke, but Wes did neither.
He turned his palm instead, catching my fingers and lacing them with his. His warm, wide hand, calluses against my knuckles, and his thumb pressing once against my pulse like he was testing it.
He held on for a beat, eyes on the windshield, then let go to put the truck in drive.
The engine rumbled to life. Snow crunched under the tires as we pulled away from the curb. The cab filled with that easy, humming quiet that settled in only when you were full—of food, of coffee, of words, of feelings you weren’t quite ready to unwrap.
I leaned my head back against the seat and watched Main Street slide by in soft blurs of light, the ghost of his touch still tingling in my fingers.
We were just running errands and drinking coffee and talking about nothing.
My whole body knew better.
This wasn’t practice anymore. It was a life, threaded through a Tuesday in a half-empty bookstore, and for one blindingly stupid, beautiful day, I let myself believe it might actually be ours.
