Page 45 of Head Under Water

He opens his mouth, but it just hangs there, thought unspoken.

“Do I…have something on my face?” I lift a hand to my chin.

His gaze flicks to my lips, a little too warm.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps…staring. Like he’s trying to decide something.

Tension crackles in the air, lighting the room with sparks and questions I refuse to allow into my brain.

Heat prickles my chest. I’d be mortified if he had even the slightest idea what I’m thinking about right now. The sounds. His sounds. They’re practically a soundtrack repeating in my head.

And now that I know he was alone, there’s no anger left.

Just…something else entirely.

His eyes move back up to meet mine slowly. Lazily. Then he blinks out of his trance and leans forward to stand. “No. You’re good.”

I watch as he moves into the kitchen and sets his plate in the sink. Realizing I should try to help, I join him. This time, he lets me. We work side by side in silence, navigating the tight space between the island and the stove.

Little sparks shoot through my skin every time his skin brushes mine.

He leans over my head for a glass dish to store the remaining slices.

We both reach for the pizza pan at the same time, and his hand closes over my wrist as if by instinct, like he can’t help himself.

I spin around, my back pressed against the counter, front pinned in place by his. He releases my wrist. We both look down at the loss of contact, then back up.

His gaze washes over my face, down my neck. A heavy pause stretches between us like the dough before.

He leans forward.

My breathing stills. Mind goes silent.

His chest presses harder into mine as he grabs something behind me on the counter.

“Olive oil,” he mutters.

He could’ve asked me to move. The old Will would’ve.

I shake my head fiercely, clearing the fog, and scoot to the side. My heart is pounding so hard it’s impossible to form coherent thoughts.

“You okay?” he asks, a hint of amused confusion in his tone. His eyes drag over my face like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah. Um, thanks again for dinner,” I say, backing farther away.

His expression is unbothered, as if he went to no trouble at all. He finishes wiping off the counter and stovetop, then turns abruptly. “I’m going to bed.”

He disappears before I can respond, leaving me lingering in the silent kitchen. I puff out a deep breath, then turn, shaking my hands out at my hips. I open the fridge for a Sprite, relishing the cool air, and lean forward to grab a can.

A hand touches my shoulder from behind. At once, time stops. His skin is warm on mine, his grip gentle.

I’m frozen, waiting.

His thumb shifts forward the tiniest bit, as if stroking my skin, the movement so small it’s almost imperceptible. I’m not even sure he knows he’s done it. I straighten a fraction, but barely at all. Like the slightest shift in my muscles might shatter this moment.

His breath is hot against my skin as he brings his face closer to mine until the moment his mouth is next to my ear.

He hesitates. I feel the pause more than I hear it.