Page 38 of The Final Faceoff
Leif doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the screen, his jaw tight, his throat moving like he’s swallowing something back. His fingers flex against his knee, and when I glance sideways at him, his expression is unreadable—like he’s trying to process a thousand things at once but doesn’t know where to start.
I expect him to make a joke. To nudge me and say something ridiculous, something to break the tension. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he just exhales, slow and measured, and nods once.
Something flickers in his gaze—something raw and unfamiliar that makes my stomach flip.
I don’t know what’s happening inside him, and I don’t ask.
Leif’s hand twitches against his knee like he wants to touch me but isn’t sure if he should. There’s hesitation in his posture, like he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t know how to cross.
I clear my throat, forcing a wobbly smile. “Well. I guess I officially have a gummy bear.”
Leif exhales a short laugh, but there’s something off about it—like he’s struggling to find his footing in a moment that feels too big. His gaze shifts between me and the screen, something unreadable tightening in his expression, and then?—
He moves.
It’s awkward at first—his hand reaching for mine, then hesitating, then shifting like he’s second-guessing himself. And in that hesitation, his fingers accidentally catch the crinkled paper over my lap, tugging it slightly.
For a second, I’m not even sure what happened.
Then I see his eyes widen just enough to make my breath hitch. His jaw locks, his throat bobs, and his gaze jerks upward so fast I almost laugh.
Did he see something? Maybe. Probably.
But the bigger thing is—I don’t care.
Not right now.
Not when I’m lying on this exam table, staring at the first glimpse of something I’m still trying to wrap my head around.
Not when he looks like he’s feeling something he can’t quite contain, and it’s making him act on pure instinct.
Before I can say anything—before I can even decide if I should be mortified or amused—he moves again, his hand pressing against my thigh, warm and grounding.
I freeze.
So does he.
Then, like he’s realized he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, he mutters something under his breath and shifts, sliding his hand up to my waist instead.
And suddenly, I’m in his arms.
It’s not a careful hug. Not one of those polite, reassuring squeezes people give when they don’t know what else to say. It’s solid—his arms locking around me, his grip firm, his chest against my shoulder like he’s holding on for both of us.
Like he needs this just as much as I do.
I don’t move at first. I just breathe him in—the warm scent of his skin, the way his heart beats a little too fast, the way his fingers press into my back like he’s anchoring himself to this moment.
When I finally let out a shaky breath, he shifts, his hand cupping the back of my head in a way that’s too much and not enough at the same time.
And then, his lips brush against my temple. Soft. Barely there. Like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I go still, my breath catching, my fingers curling into his shirt.
It’s not a kiss. Not really. But it feels like something.
Something big. Something terrifying. Something that makes my throat feel thick and my skin go warm.
