Page 89 of Kneel with the King
The idea of his hand on my back as we ride the Q train, smirking at how full it is during rush hour.
Him ordering me a triple espresso at my favorite coffee shop on 5th Ave.
Curling up in my bed as we watchGladiatoron the weekend, or my favorite—Jeopardy!
Fuck.
Not. Now.
We pause on a wider platform to let the couple ahead of us finish the next segment. King pulls the water bottle out again and hands it over without looking, like it’s second nature now.
“Drink,” he says.
I take a swallow because it’s easier than saying no, and because my throat’s dry for reasons that have nothing to do with climbing. I pass it back, and our fingers brush. The contact sends a stupid little spark right up my arm.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
I focus on the course instead, watching the next section sway in the wind. It’s a set of three parallel ropes—one for your feet, two higher up for your hands. No planks, no solid footing. Just ropes and air and King right behind me.
“Think you can handle it?” he asks.
I scoff. “Please. I’ve been handling you all week, haven’t I?”
“Barely,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice.
I step out onto the first rope, my balance wobbly but passable. The higher ropes pull at my arms, my core working overtime to keep me upright. Thank God I work out, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to do this. Halfway across, my foot slips—just for a second—and then there’s a strong hand gripping my harness, steadying me like before.
“I’ve got you,” he says, close to my ear. One finger brushes the collar around my neck before it disappears.
I am fine. That’s the problem. I’m fine because he’s there, because he doesn’t hesitate, because he seems to know exactly when I’m about to lose my footing—on the ropes and everywhere else.
The platform on the other side feels like safety, but when I step onto it, the rush of relief is tangled with something sharper. A thought I don’t want to have: I could get used to this.
I can’t get used to this.
King joins me a second later, his breathing steady, eyes scanning my face like he’s looking for cracks.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. Fine.” My voice comes out too quick, too light, and I shove it further into casual territory. “What, worried your fake boyfriend’s going to embarrass you in front of the whole group?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “No. I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”
The words land harder than they should. I look away, focusing on the couple ahead of us starting the next section.
He adjusts my harness strap again—unnecessarily this time, because he just checked it—and steps close enough that our shoulders brush. The heat from him is ridiculous, like my body’s suddenly aware of every square inch of contact.
When the facilitator waves us forward, I move fast, putting distance between us on the next stretch of ropes. It’s petty, maybe, but I need the space. I need to remember that this is pretend, that King’s not mine to lean on, not really.
Behind me, his voice carries just enough to reach my ears. “Slow down, Harrison.”
I pretend not to hear.
We make it through the last obstacle without me falling.
Physically, at least.
Emotionally? Debatable.
