Page 84 of Any Port in a Storm

Sure, we’re getting sloppier with our boundaries, slipping in and out of the frame of each other’s classes and phone calls and daily rituals. It’s becoming harder with every passing day to remember where I end and he begins. But it doesn’t terrify me like it used to. And seeing him grinning at my essay on how John Everett Millais’ work transcends the boundaries of creative expression melts whatever ice remains in my heart where Nick is concerned.

It was an early spring in Boston, after all.

I cook salmon and risotto for dinner, which I happen to know is one of Nick’s favorites; that his dad likes to make it for special occasions.

I figure it’s the least I can do, given everything Nick has done for me lately.

Lately, and just in general.

After dinner, we retire to the couch with a bottle of Jameson that Max threw into Nick’s duffel when he dropped his things at my door. I suppose it was only a couple of weeks ago, but it seems like an eternity already. This apartment, which at first felt like a prison, is slowly becoming my favorite little corner of the world. A shelter from the storm.

Safe harbor.

Cheeks rosy with sun and liquor and the joy of the day, we settle in to play chess. “I’m going to win this time,” I bluster, feeling immediately tipsy after just a few sips of whiskey.

Nick grins at me from under his flop of hair. “We’ll see about that.”

It’s a pretty even match at first. I take two pawns, a rook, and a knight, and he grabs both of my bishops and four pawns. I’m so caught up in the flow of the game that twenty minutes pass before it hits me.

“You’re not taking forever to play your turns.” My voice comes out far more accusatory than I intend, but I suppose he may not notice, since I’m pretty sure I also sound fairly drunk.

Nick slides his queen to the right. “Just trying to make sure you have a good time.”

My heart melts, all the way to my toes. “Nick.”

“Mm?”

I slide down the couch until our thighs brush, and, without thinking it through at all, I throw my arms around him.

It only takes him a split second to melt into me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He pulls back to look at me; to brush the hair from my forehead. “I didn’t know you felt this strongly about chess.”

A sharp laugh bursts forth from my throat, both at his joke and his incredible poker face. I will mine back into a more stoic expression. “I feel very strongly about chess.”

“Oh?” His voice is soft, his aura, drawing me to him like a magnet.

I can’t look away.

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Chess is…my favorite.”

His eyes flick, ever so slightly, to my lips. And that’s all it takes.

My hands are on his face, pulling him to me, gasping for air as I brush my lips against his. He weaves his fingers through my hair, whispers my name like an oath. Presses his body into mine, back against the cushions of the couch.

The room is alive with explosions of color; bursts of electricity. My brain’s devoid of any kind of coherent thought whatsoever, save the feeling of his lips on mine; his heartbeat bringing me back to life.

I touch his shoulders, his chest, his goddamn hair—it’s flung every which way, and I could spend the rest of my life touching it. Touching him. I had no idea how much I was missing this. I must have repressed my memories of him; repressed my need for him bit by bit until it was buried so deep I could barely make it out; a treasure in the sand.

But my god, now that I’ve found it again, I’m not sure how I’ll ever forget.

Nick laces his fingers through mine and draws my hands up over my head, then drags his lips down my neck. By the time he gets to my collarbone, I’m ready to tear off my clothes and drop them at his feet.

“Laurel,” he whispers in between kisses. “God, you have no idea⁠—”

“Shhh.” I kiss him gently. “You don’t have to say anything.”