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“Stop deflecting, Sebastian Gauthier.”
He traps his lip between his teeth, still looking up at me. “But I’m almost as good at deflecting as I am at hockey.”
I arch an eyebrow.
He sighs, his fingers still sliding along mine. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want to talk about it, because I don’t like feeling…knocked back on my heels, powerless, like there’s something wrong with me.”
I turn my palm, sliding our hands together. “Yeah. I hear that. It’s okay to feel that way, you know? I’m not great at it myself, but I’m working on it with my therapist. To let myself feel things, even when they’re hard.”
“I don’t feel like it’s okay,” he mutters, peering down at our tangled hands, taking mine in both of his and tracing my fingers. “I don’t know how to do that. Be okay with not…being okay.”
I watch him as he examines my hand, then I do something my lizard brain clearly told my other hand to do, because before the much more sensible, rational part of my brain can tell it what a bad idea this is, my free hand glides softly through his hair. “You learn by practice and more practice. Like anything you want to get good at. Little by little. Baby steps.”
His thumb slides along my index finger and a sweet, hot ache settles low in my stomach. My fingers being touched should not turn me on like this.
Sebastian leans into my touch as I softly comb through his hair. “How do I do those baby steps?”
“Well, I think it’s different for everyone. For me, I let myself acknowledge my ‘not okayness,’ my difficult feelings, which can be really, really intense. It’s hard for me. Then, if they start to feel like they’re too much to stay with, and generally they do, I use what my therapist calls ‘distress tolerance.’”
“Distress tolerance?” He turns his face just enough that the words are whispered against my palm, hot and damp against my skin.
A shiver runs through me. “Something that helps you navigate intensely difficult emotions or situations. Often, they’ll be distractions. Pleasurable distractions. Comforting distractions. Healthy distractions, preferably.”
He groans into my palm, and I arch reflexively, just a little, hopefully not enough that he notices.
I think he notices. And I think, maybe he’s a little wound up like I am too, because he turns his face, until his lips graze my palm. “Distractions, huh?” he breathes against my skin. “Pleasurable, comforting distractions?”
I swallow thickly, combing my fingers through his hair, way too keyed up from simply his mouth brushing my hand. Sebastian leans closer and sets his forehead against my hip on a heavy exhale. “Healthy distractions,” he whispers, pressing his forehead harder into my hip, blowing out another breath. “Right.”
“Happy distractions,” I whisper. My voice comes out hoarse and uneven. Somewhere in the past ten seconds of this…whatever this is, my eyes fell shut, and they stay that way. All I know is soft, sweet darkness, the weight of his head against my stomach, his fingers tangled with mine.
“I think…” He clears his throat roughly. His voice is hoarse and uneven, too. “Happy and healthy distractions might be diametrically opposed with me.”
“That’s not true.”
Slowly, he pulls back. I open my eyes gradually, dazed as I peer down at him. I force my hand to leave his hair, but not before my thumb grazes his ear. His eyelids flutter for a heartbeat.
“How so?” he asks.
I smile, setting my hands on his shoulders. “Hockey. Makes you happy and healthy. And if it’s anything like soccer is for me, considering its demanding, consuming schedule, I’d say it functions as a distraction, too.”
His brow furrows. “Huh. I never thought of it like that.”
“How did you think of it?”
He tips his head back, all smirk and silver eyes, but there’s something different about it, something soft at the edges of how he looks at me. “As something I’m fucking amazing at.”
I roll my eyes, but a laugh still sneaks out. “Well, reframe it. It keeps you busy, and it’s something that clearly brings you joy, that’s very good for you. Happy, healthy distraction. Soon, you’ll be back at it, but it’s not available to you tonight, so…want to try something else?”
His hands settle on my hips, rocking me closer. “Something else?”
I stare at him, warring with myself. I want so badly to push him back, straddle his lap, settle my hips over his, and kiss him breathless all over again.
Friends! the voice of reason reminds me. He only wants to be friends!
Friends. Right. I can do this.
“Something…relatively healthy,” I explain. “It does involve a lot of sugar, but it won’t make you sick. And it involves chocolate, too, so I think it’s going to make you pretty happy.”
