“It looks more degrading than it sounds.”
“Does it make noise?”
“Like an enraged vacuum cleaner.”
Horror spread across his face. “No.”
“You would rather be carried?”
His eye narrowed. “Can you carry me?”
“Yes.”
“Up an entire staircase?”
“Yes.”
“Without dropping me?”
“I carried you off a boat during a storm after you dislocated your shoulder.”
“Was I conscious?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Did I complain?”
“Without pause.”
A tired smile curved his mouth.
Then it faded.
“What do you want?” he asked.
His voice had softened.
“You know.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
I sat again.
“I want you upstairs.”
“With you.”
“Yes.”
His fingers released my shirt.
Fear opened in me so quickly it felt physical.
Then his hand moved down and found mine.
“I want to try.”
I threaded our fingers together.
