Page 169 of Offside Angle

Santi doesn’t try to give the realization a name. He only lifts our joined hands, presses a slow kiss across my knuckles, and lowers them back into the sand between us.

We stay until the tide creeps close enough to threaten our feet.

Eventually Santi squeezes my hand and stands, pulling me up with him. “Come on.”

We walk along the water for a while, close enough that the tide occasionally reaches for our feet before slipping back into the dark, and by the time the lights of a small café appear farther up the beach, I’m starving.

Santi reaches the door first and holds it open for me.

I roll my eyes as I pass him. “You know I can open doors.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why do you keep doing that?”

“Because you keep walking through them.”

Asshole.

I’m still smiling when we step inside. The café is warm and half-full, mostly couples and a few people working on laptops with coffee beside them, and the low murmur of conversation mixes with music and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine behind the counter.

There’s an empty table near the window, and somewhere between the door and getting there, I reach for Santi’s hand without thinking.

I make it another step before the pull on my arm makes me turn around.

“What?”

Santi is looking down at our joined hands, and there’s already a smirk starting at the corner of his mouth.

“Nothing.”

“That’s your smug nothing.”

“You reached for me.”

“Yes?” I lift our hands slightly between us. “I do touch you, Santiago. Frequently. In public.”

“I know.”

“I kissed you at the fucking Finals.”

“I remember.”

“Then what?”

His eyes come back to mine as he steps closer. “You didn’t think about it first.”

I open my mouth, ready with something sarcastic, and find absolutely nothing useful waiting there.

Santi’s smirk gets worse.

“Oh, fuck off.” I groan.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re saying plenty with your face.”

“My face likes you.”