Page 182 of These Tears

The women burst into knowing chuckles, wave us off in mock scandal, and drift back towards the circle.

Just as I start withdrawing, his hand catches mine.

I spin just as he takes the other and drags them around his waist, pulling me down beside him.

‘Your touch,’ he says hurriedly. ‘I choose yours.’

I notice the way he stills as if the decision has startled him too.

Easing into him carefully, I keep my hold soft, let my cheek come to rest against the hard slope of his shoulder where I sit at his side.

He stays rigid against me. But gradually, his breathing deepens, his weight eases back until some of the strain leaves his body.

His chin turns, breath stirring my hair near the temple before I lift my gaze to his.

His heavy-lidded eyes, unguarded for one damning second, fall to my mouth before lifting back to mine.

My heart misses its next beat.

‘Not to sound ungrateful, but you don’t have to do this,’ he whispers.

Suddenly, a flash bursts white across us both.

We turn at the same time to find one of the unfamiliar faces lowering a phone, smiling far too brightly. The woman winks. ‘Now give us a kiss for the camera!’

Elias’ face tightens in slow disbelief.

His lie has come back to bite us in the arse. Everyone believes we’re a couple.

‘Come on, Siv,’ he mutters, voice rough with warning and embarrassment. ‘We’re not twelve.’

Her grin only widens. She raises one fist into the air like a menace in wool. ‘Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!’

Beyond the fire, Inga’s grin dies as her eyes cut to Elias, then to Sunna. Sunna follows her gaze. They both stiffen.

Inga opens her mouth, already taking a step towards us, while her mother raises one hand in a modest attempt to kill the chant before it gathers any more weight.

Someone near the fire laughs and joins in. Then another voice rises. Then the circle catches it, clapping it out until the word rolls through the space with the buoyant certainty of people who think they are blessing something simple.

Heat crawls up my throat.

Beneath my arms, Elias turns into a statue again, so I flatten my palms over the hard muscle at his side, reminding him I am there. He sucks in a short breath. Holds it.

Neither of us moves. The chanting rises but it’s swallowed by the pulse suddenly beating too loudly in my ears.

He looks to the side and down at me. Unease passes between us, and neither of us is able to settle on the next breath.

But as the will of the crowd spreads and suspends us in the middle, his eyes begin to search mine. The panic leaves his face by fractions until there is only an unfortified rawness beneath it. One that also lives in me.

And we’re no longer performing. There are no prison shackles between us, no guard to mock him. No book to stand as a buffer, and no threat in the role of instruction.

Just my fingers resting against him, his forearm covering mine.

And the terrible knowledge that we both understand what happens if one of us leans in.

His eyes lower to my mouth. Mine drop to his.

And the world falls into a hush.