Page 167 of The Fall
“You don’t have to do this,” I say.
“I know. Want to.”
He wipes down the counters, and I study the flex of his shoulders, the way his shirt pulls across his back. When he’s finished, he dries his hands and steps between my knees.
We settle on the couch, listening to a Colorado versus Minnesota hockey game through the radio app on his phone. The announcers’ voices fill my living room. Blair stretches his legs out, ankles crossed on my coffee table, and I tuck myselfagainst his side. His arm comes around me like it’s always been there.
The game flows around us. We trade observations—a goalie playing too deep in his crease, the way Minnesota’s power play keeps collapsing.
Second period starts. The announcer’s voice rises and falls with the play. Blair’s heartbeat is steady under my cheek, and the last thing I register is his lips brushing my temple.
The next thing I know, the living room is quiet and Blair is trying to climb off the couch without moving me. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“S’okay,” I mumble.
“I should head out.” He doesn’t sound happy about it. “Let you get some real sleep.”
My hands curl into his shirt before I’m fully awake enough to stop them. I don’t want to let go. “You don’t have to.”
He’s looking down at me, his face shadowed in the dim light from the kitchen. The game must have ended. His phone sits dark on the coffee table.
I push myself up, my hand still fisted in his shirt. We’re close like this, close enough to see the debate playing out behind his eyes. Stay or go. Push forward or pull back. The same questions that have been circling us all night.
His hand comes up to cover mine, holding it flat against his chest. His heartbeat quickens under my palm. “If I stay?—”
“I know.”
He catches my hand before I can pull away completely, and his voice drops to that ocean-deep register. “This isn’t about not wanting to.”
“I know,” I say again.
The couch cushions shift as he stands, and I follow him to the door. My bare feet are silent on the hardwood while his shoes scuff softly with each step. He pauses with his hand on thedoorknob and turns back to face me. “Ice the base of your skull before bed. Twenty minutes.”
“Yes, Captain.”
A smile ghosts across his face. His forehead drops to mine, and we breathe the same air for three heartbeats, four, five. His hand glides into my hair, and he kneads the base of my skull for a long, lingering minute. My eyes float closed.
“Sleep well, Torey.” His words brush across my lips. He pulls back slowly, his fingertips trailing down my neck, across my shoulder, then gone.
I open my eyes as he goes, yearning to pull him back, to beg him to stay.
The click of the door shutting behind him echoes in my apartment. Blair’s scent lingers, coconut and lime, tempting me to chase after him.
Instead, I push off the door and head for the bathroom. I brush my teeth on autopilot, mind replaying every moment. Blair’s hands on me, strong and sure. His voice, low in my ear. His smile, just for me.
I shake two ibuprofen into my palm and down them with a glass of water before padding to the freezer for an ice pack. Captain’s orders.
I close my eyes and focus on the cold seeping into my muscles, numbing the lingering ache. Sleep rises to claim me, and I let it, drifting off to thoughts of ocean eyes and steadying hands, his lips on my temple, his voice in my ear.
In my dreams, he stays.
The rink is quiet when I arrive the next morning. I’m not here to skate, but I’ve got a slow appointment with the treadmill in thegym. Blair’s prescription: low-impact, low-heart-rate, followed by stretching.
I push through the locker room door and freeze.
Blair’s here.
He’s sitting on the bench in front of his stall, already in his base layers, rolling out his calves with a foam roller. His head lifts when the door swings shut behind me.
