Page 86 of When In Doubt

“I missed you too. So, so much.”

I grip his wrist, keeping his hand in place against my face so that I can nuzzle into it. I would imprint the feeling onto my skin if I could, just so I could feel it forever. An unwelcome thought occurs to me and I snap my head up to meet his gaze. “Are you just picking up Harvey?”

He waits, considering his answer. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you ask me to stay.”

“Stay.” I nod, not wanting him out of my sight again.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” I’m not going to let myself overthink this. I want him here. “But you need to shower first.”

Oscar comes out of the bathroom twenty minutes later in a cloud of steam, hair damp and tousled. I’m on the bed, pretending to focus on the knitting project in my lap and not the gray sweatpants he pulled out of his duffel bag before heading for the shower. From the smirk he shoots me, I haven’t managed to hide my interest, and I feel a blush rise across my cheeks.

He waggles his eyebrows as he sits beside me and I laugh, giving him a playful smack to the chest. He catches my head, dropping a kiss to my knuckles before releasing me so I can carry on with the project. I turn the show back on, enjoying the quiet domesticity as he settles beside me.

“Do you wanna watch something else?” I offer.

He shakes his head. “No, this looks good.”

I nod and start back on my knitting. I’m only half listening to whatever the host is saying. It’s a miracle I don’t fuck up my stitches with the way my focus is consumed by the man next to me.

I glance over and catch him watching my hands move.

A minute later, his eyes are on my face.

Then he’s watching my lips as I count stitches.

My breaths come faster. I’m aware of every tiny shift in his body, the way he settles in like he grew out of the mattress.

I giggle awkwardly, not used to being so closely observed.

“Just watch the show,” I tease.

“Honey, you turned it on halfway through the season. I have no fucking clue what’s going on.”

“Why didn’t you say? I could’ve explained!” I huff, exasperated.

“You seemed like you were enjoying it. I didn’t want to bother you with a bunch of questions.”

“So, what, you’re just gonna stare at me like a creep?”

“Something like that.” He shrugs. “You’re nice to look at.”

I scoff, my face getting even redder.

“You are!” he protests. “And it’s kinda crazy how you can do that without even looking.” He nods down at my knitting. I’d barely realized I was still doing it, it’s such second nature to me.

“Oh, it’s a pretty easy project.”

“It’s like your fingers are dancing.” He says it with a sort of wonder, like it’s nothing he’s ever seen before.

I smile, but I can’t find words to reply, not when my heart has lodged itself in my throat. I look back at the TV, my hands picking up the yarn again. It feels like there’s tension thrumming in the air between us, something I can’t see but that pulls at me any time either of us moves, like a tether close to snapping.

Halfway through the next episode I start to get a cramp in my hand. I flex my fingers, trying to stretch them out without being too obvious about it. Oscar catches me, because of course he does.