Page 70 of Level Up for Love

The light glows weakly, flickering.

“Why is it so fucking dark?” I complain.

“I don’t think they use this closet often; Colin said he’s been meaning to replace the light for a long time.” His mouth quirks. “That was when I first moved here.”

I realize I never asked. “When did you move to New Haven?” If I remember correctly, the Lorekeeper cancellation happened earlier in the summer.

“August,” he says as he leads me toward the back of the closet. I stumble after him, one hand on his elbow.

The light above our heads suddenly whines, flickers warningly, and then goes out completely. “Really?” I groan. Wesley pulls out his phone and turns on its flashlight beam, illuminating part of the closet. It’s so stuffed to the brim with oddball collections of nerdy shit—dice, Warhammer figurines, paint, plastic castles, and dozens of board games—it might as well be a Bag of Holding. Finally, he finds a few shelves that seem reserved for D&D supplies and begins to sort through them.

I stick close to his left side—the phone’s flashlight isn’t all that powerful, and I have to follow its path exactly to identify whether any of the figurines are skeletons. Orcs, liches (close!), cultists, elves, beholders…nope. I stick to the lower shelves while Wesley examines the taller ones.

“I meant to bring your shirt back today,” he says offhandedly. “Washed it and everything.”

As my cheeks warm, I glance up at him. “Keep it. It suits you.”

“What did you think of Miami? I’ve never been.”

“Me, neither, actually. My dad went on a business trip there and brought them back for me and Mona.”

Wesley grins; I notice it only because his teeth flash in the dimness. “He must know you well, to make a pit stop for you two at a game store.”

The nostalgia aches between my ribs like an unhealed wound. “He would have gone anyway,” I say with some distant fondness. “He’s the one who introduced us to gaming.”

“Really?”

I nod. “When I was a kid, we’d spend every holiday playing something.” Holidays were the only times he was ever home for more than just a handful of days. “He’d help Mom do the dishes on Thanksgiving just so he could clear the table and set up a mini campaign for me and Mona. At Christmas, our presents under the tree were always games.” I pause, then laugh a little. “He would like Blood of the Tyrant. He’s really competitive.”

“Suppose you had to get it from somewhere, right?”

“Hey, now.” I turn to face him and lean back against the shelf, crossing my arms over my chest.

He runs his tongue over his front teeth as he grins. “Am I wrong?”

“No, but—”

“Here they are.”

Wesley steps close enough that his chest brushes against mine. He winks at me before his gaze slides over the top of my head to the mess of clear plastic containers clustered on the top shelf behind me. The sleeve of his knit sweater brushes my cheek as he reaches past my face to grab the box of figurines. When he draws back, he does so slowly, but I can hear the figures clatter against one another.

And then we’re standing nose to nose, and his dark eyes stutter around my face. His breathing slows, his throat bobs as he swallows, and his gaze slips lower—

As I brace my elbow on the shelf—I need to steady myself, need to feel grounded so I don’t let myself fall forward—I knock his phone from where he placed it to cast a weak bubble of light around us. It tumbles to the (thankfully) carpeted floor, landing flashlight side down, smothering us in darkness.

Wesley doesn’t move to pick up the phone—he doesn’t move away at all. I can’t see him, but I heard his inhale of surprise as it fell, and I still feel the lingering warmth of his breath against my cheek. My lungs are full of his citrus-and-amber smell.

“You okay?” he asks. I don’t know why he’s whispering. It’s not like we’re hiding. The low, husky tone of his voice has the small hairs on the back of my neck standing on end.

“Yes,” I breathe back, just as quiet.

Tentatively, I press my palms flat against Wesley’s chest, if for no other reason than to assure myself of exactly where he stands.

There’s something about being wrapped in this darkness that feels…freeing. I can’t see his expression, can’t read the thoughts in his eyes. I can only feel the carefully measured rise and fall of his breathing under my fingertips and hear the way he inhales a little more deeply when my head brushes against his cheekbone. It makes me want to lean closer, to do things I wouldn’t be brave enough to do in the light. I can almost pretend that we’re in a separate world entirely, one where we don’t have to think about our history, or our motivations, or our competition.

Or the consequences.

Wesley lowers his hand until his fingertips brush the crown of my head, and his knuckles experimentally trace down my jaw and neckline in the dark. His skin feels feverish against mine, leaving a burning trail in its wake.