Page 117 of The Space Between
Gruene isn’t a man who stays.
He shows up. He saves. He leaves.
But not last night.
Last night, he kissed me like I was oxygen. Held me like I was the only tether to a world he doesn’t know how to live in anymore.
He didn’t just touch me.
He let me touch him back.
And this morning, he’s still here.
His fingers twitch against my ribs, and I know he’s awake before he says a word. “You sleep?” he murmurs, his voice low and gravel-rough.
“Some.” I answer. His palm flattens, splaying over my belly like he needs to feel that I’m still real.
“You?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away, then, he says, “Yeah. I did.”
It feels like something sacred.
We don’t talk muchas we get dressed for the day.
He pulls on his jeans but doesn’t button them right away.
Pulling his shirt over my head, I wrap it around me like it’s armor.
I don’t know what today is. I don’t know what we are now.
But I know it’s different.
And I’m terrified of wanting it too much.
“Got a delivery this morning,” he says, grabbing his keys off the counter. “Float tubes. Was supposed to come next week.”
“You need help? I’m off today.” I ask before I can think it through.
He meets my eyes for the first time since we got out of bed. The answer is in the flicker behind his stare. The way his jaw clenches, just a little, and then, it relaxes. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “Yeah, I could use some help.”
We leave the cabin together and walk down the road to the shop. Reece is already there. He doesn’t say anything as we walk up. He doesn’t look surprised to see me. He just waves and says, “Mornin,” then, starts sorting lifejackets.
Gruene and I don’t talk about what happened as we work on unloading the truck. Not directly but everything’s different.
He moves around me like I’m not just the woman living next door. He doesn’t flinch when I brush past him to grab a cooler from the truck bed. He catches my wrist once when I nearly trip, and holds it longer than necessary while muttering, “Careful, there. You okay?” There’s an energy in the air between us now, crackling and dangerous andalive. And still, we don’t talk because if we do, maybe we’ll break it.
Or maybe we’ll become it.
By the timethe last of the float tubes are stacked, the sun’s high and I’m sweating through his shirt. My shorts are riding up and my thighs are sticking to the truck bed.
“You wanna come up to the ridge?” he asks suddenly.
I blink. “The ridge?”
He nods, wiping sweat from his brow with the hem of his shirt. “Water’s running strong. Good view after the rain.”
My stomach twists.
