A sound leaves me. Not a laugh. The nearest thing to a laugh I’ve produced since I stopped counting and she pulled it out of me with two words while I was kissing her.
Her hand moves from my neck. Down my chest. Over my heart. I cover her hand with mine.
Nonna Rosa’s radio from the kitchen. Cajun fiddle. She’s in a good mood.
My hand over hers over my heart. Still here.
19
ISABELLA
The vibrator is in the drawer. Useless. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for what feels like an hour, running numbers through my head because my brain won’t shut off and what it actually wants is thirty feet away and I refuse to give in.
Except.
The forehead press. Two days ago. His skin against mine, his breath on my mouth, his voice scraped raw saying “I keep coming back” like the confession was being pulled out of him with pliers. The tender kiss that was nothing like the collision of mouths on the desk before. The hand over mine over his heart. He stayed. Not long. Not the whole night. But he stayed in our office with his forehead against mine until the distance between us shrank to the width of a promise he hasn’t made yet.
And now I’m lying here. In the dark. And the vibrator is in the drawer, mocking me. And I’m aching for his hands. His knuckles dragging down my skin. His grip on my neck. The weight of him behind me, pressing me into marble until I couldn’t think. I am done fighting it.
I get up. Down the hall. My feet have the floorboards memorized. Third one creaks. Avoid it. The moonlight cuts the same line across the hardwood. His door is the last on the left.
I knock. Once. Soft. No answer. But I hear him move. Bed springs shifting. The pad of bare feet.
The door opens.
He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Because the universe has decided to test me and the test is a man standing in a doorframe with ink and scars on full display and the lamp behind him throwing gold across his shoulders.
“I’m not here because I can’t sleep.” The words come out steadier than they should. “I’m here because I want to be. That’s it. No excuse.”
He looks at me. That flat, measuring gaze that gives away nothing. A tendon in his throat pulls taut. His hand on the doorframe.
Then he steps aside.
I walk in. His room. The bed with charcoal sheets, neatly made even now. A lamp on the nightstand. Not much else. He closes the door. Locks it. Stands with his back to the wood and watches me.
“You’re thinking too much,” he says.
“I’m always thinking too much. That’s why I’m here.” I face him. Close the distance by two steps. “You shut my brain off. With your hands. Years inside my own head and you’re the only thing that makes it go quiet. That terrifies me and I’m done being terrified.”
“That’s why you came.”
“That’s why I came.”
Silence. He holds still. His eyes track my face like he’s bracing for impact and the impact is that I might mean it.
I reach for him. My palm on his chest. Over the ink. Over the scar. His skin is warm and his heartbeat is fast under my palm.
He lets me. For three beats. Then he covers mine. Holds it there.
“If you want out, you say so.” His voice low. “At any point. And I stop.”
“Noted.”
“I need you to say it.”
“If I want you to stop, I’ll tell you.” I hold his gaze. “I’m not here out of obligation or boredom or because I can’t sleep. I’m choosing this. I’m choosing you.”
A tendon in his neck pulls tight. He fights to stay still instead of pulling me in. He doesn’t pull me in. Not yet.
