Page 37 of ILY
Slamming my eyes shut, I can’t tell if the world is moving or if I am. But the next thing I know, warm, strong arms are around me, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the ground. I’m too afraid to open my eyes to check.
“…hear…okay?”
With him this close, I can make out most of what he’s saying. His voice has a good pitch that I haven’t lost yet, and being out in the middle of literal nowhere, he’s not competing with the noises of the city.
“Mm,” I manage. My throat feels a little dry.
“Vertigo?” I don’t know if it’s on purpose, but he’s speaking close to my better ear, which helps too.
I nod and brace myself for the world to swim again, but everything feels a bit steadier now.
“Did you take a bite of the old salt lick in the barn?” he asks.
I frown before realizing he’s joking and open my eyes so I can roll them at him. I’m propped up against his chest, and he’s staring down at me with a tiny smirk. He looks adorably rumpled—his hair wet and messy from being washed and toweled off, and he smells really, really nice.
“It’s not always salt. It’s also stress.”
“Are you stressed?” His brows dip, his expression concerned.
“Stalking is hard work.”
He blinks, then laughs and helps ease me upright. When his fingers find my wrist, he uses his thumb to press against my palm until my hand opens, and then he presses something into it. Ah. My hearing aids. I must have dropped them.
“I know from firsthand accounts these are wildly expensive. Don’t want them to break,” he says.
“It’s fine. My—” I stop. I can’t tell him that my insurance covers them. I’m supposed to be a dark web explosives expert. If I mention insurance, he’s definitely going to have questions. “—warranty is still good.”
He hums, the pitch just barely audible over the ringing in my ears, which is always worse when I have my hearing aids off, and he pulls his hand away. “Want…inside?”
I think he’s inviting me in. I wasn’t looking at his lips, so I missed some of it, but I’m willing to take a guess.
I nod and push up to my feet and feel an almost physical punch of relief that everything seems relatively stable. The little attacks are the worst, but they’ve been fewer this year, which is a blessing. In reality, I will take all the hearing loss over the way the earth just seems to jump away from my feet sometimes.
“…something to…if you…” I lose most of what he’s saying as he opens the door and holds it for me.
I take a breath and remember that it’s okay to advocate for myself. At work, not so much. Asking people to repeat themselves or look at me when they’re speaking just reminds them that I can’t keep up. That I’m a liability. But with Leaf, I know it’s different.
I tap him on the shoulder, and when he looks back at me, I sign, ‘Sorry. Repeat?’
His face pinks. “Shit,” he says aloud, then lifts his hands to respond. ‘I can make you something to eat or drink if you want.’
I soften and shake my head. I’m overly full from the gas station breakfast burrito I choked down in the car while watching the gym. In hindsight, that’s probably a good part of why I had the vertigo attack.
But sodium and I are old friends, and it’s hard to stick to the breakup some days.
“Thank you,” I say aloud. “I’m good. But if you have an ice pack, that’ll help my vertigo.”
He bites his lip and runs his gaze up and down my body before nodding and motioning me inside and back toward the kitchen table.
He rummages around in the freezer and returns to me with an ice pack as I drop down into a chair. I feel almost instant relief as I push it to my neck and sip on the water he’s given me. The dizzy spell should be over shortly, and it helps that I have someone here who gives a shit.
That thought comforts me as I sit with my head bowed, the ice cooling my overheated skin. I haven’t had anyone care about me like this in forever. Or at all, really. Though I’m not sure what to think considering he’s a total stranger. It should bother me more—who he is and why I’m here—but it doesn’t.
When I finally look up, Leaf is lounging on the chair beside me, casually flipping through an old magazine. He lifts it up toward me when I quirk a curious brow, and I read the title.
Blueboy.
It has a picture of a guy with a mullet and a six-pack standing on the beach, his hand near his groin, his body naked except for a towel hiding his dick.
