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“Barrett—I’m so sorry.” I lean over closer to him, wanting very much to touch him but unsure how—or if. He shifts positions, I think mostly so he doesn’t have to look at me. He’s sitting cross-legged with his eyes fixed on his lap. He blinks down at his calves, pushes a curl out of his eyes.
“That must have been so awful,” I say in a half-whisper. “I wouldn’t know, because my dad died suddenly. And I’ve never lost a sibling.”
He bites the inside of his cheek and lifts his gaze to mine. “I wouldn’t know,” he rasps. “I wasn’t there.”
He runs a hand into his hair and looks down at the cushion.
Wasn’t there? “You were— overseas? Is that what you’re saying?”
He laughs, a small, dry sound, and cuts his eyes up at me before pulling them back down, shaking his head. “I don’t know why I told you that.” His voice is rough.
I almost say “because we’re friends,” but are we? Maybe we’re just really strange acquaintances, able to be unnaturally open with one another because I kicked off our neighbor-ship by bashing his head open, and since then, we’ve spent something like 10 hours trying to kill each other.
Still—I feel a magnetic sort of pull to him. One that seems to emanate at this moment from the center of my achy chest.
I take a small, fortifying breath and scoot closer to him. When I get there, knee-to-knee with him, my limbs feel heavy with uncertainty. He’s looking at his lap, and my heart is pounding like it always does when I’m near him. After holding still a few heartbeats, I press my knee against his.
I lean my head back against the cold glass of the window and I try to think of what makes me feel better…with Dad. And I realize: I like to talk about him. So much more than I would have ever have imagined. It gives me a kind of pride. He was here. He was my Dad.
I take a deep, slow breath, and when my eyes feel confidently free of tears, I lean a little closer to him. “So your brothers liked to hear you tell them stories? I’m guessing they must have been younger than you.”
There’s a long half-second in which I’m scared I said the wrong thing. Then he nods.
“When our mom died—” I watch his Adam’s apple bob— “the boys were ten, almost eleven. I was sixteen.”
He blinks, as if he was going to say something else but can’t remember what. I take a chance and lean my head against his arm. Not because it’s comfortable—it’s still rock-like—but just for basic human contact. Comfort.
I’m surprised when he shifts, stretching his arm behind my neck—in one smooth motion, scooting closer, so our folded thighs are pressed together and his shoulder hovers over mine. His arm drops down along my upper back.
I blink at his chest, easily accessible to me now. All that’s left is for me to snuggle up to him. I wait for some signal that’s what he wants, and when he doesn’t give one, my back begins to tremble from the effort required to keep my cheek from touching his pec.
“Anyway,” he rumbles, sounding normal and relaxed, as if he didn’t just put an arm around me, “our dad worked long hours. They had a nanny, but I liked to watch them.”
The arm around my shoulders tightens slightly, pressing me against him. My lungs stop working as I lay my cheek against his chest.
I feel the rumble of his chuckle, feel his fingers sifting gently through my hair. I look up and see him smile. It looks both sweet and smug. His eyes find mine, and the scales tip to sweet; almost indulgently so.
“You’re tense,” he says softly.
“I know.” For the second time in the last hour, I feel like a teenager again.
He squeezes me closer, and I feel his big chest rise and fall. “I thought you wanted to be friends,” he whispers.
“Is this what friends do?” My words are husky. Charged. I strain my gaze to look up at his face without moving my cheek off his pec. I find his eyes closed.
“I don’t know,” he answers. His hand strokes my shoulder, and I want to shriek—or rip his pants off. As it is, I feel a little shaky. Like I’m on a roller coaster.
He presses his cheek against the top of my head. I shiver as his scruff tickles my hair.
“You smell good,” he murmurs, his arm around me squeezing.
I wrap my arms gently around his chest. “You’re nice and warm,” I whisper. Underneath my carefully roving fingers, all I feel are ridges of hard muscle. On his back… along his side…
I feel a hot pulse in between my legs and have to take a slow breath so I don’t implode.
We stay like that for a brief stretch of time—Barrett leaning on the window, his legs out in front of him; me tucked up against him, unable to move or think.
Every breath he takes is hypnotic. I find I love the feel and smell of him. The strength and size of him.
