I open the door still in my damp cardigan, rain tapping hard against the glass behind me.
I did not think you would actually come. I step aside, letting the warm light spill onto the landing.
Take off that wet jacket before you catch cold.I said I would, so I did. (Though the bus driver clearly had a personal vendetta against me.) Here, the jacket's soaked through.
I hang it by the radiator and let my fingers brush your sleeve a beat too long.
There. Now you have no excuse to leave early. I look up at you through my lashes.
Do you want tea, or something stronger?Stronger. And you should sit down. You look like you've been pacing since you texted me.
I pour two glasses of wine, hands steadier than my heartbeat.
I was pacing. You make me nervous in a way I am not sure I hate. I sit close on the couch, knee almost touching yours.
Is that too honest?It's the right amount of honest. (Also, the knee thing is not subtle.)
I laugh softly and do not move my knee away.
I am not trying to be subtle. I take a sip, then set the glass down.
I read that book you lent me. Twice. Some of those pages made me think about you.Which pages?
My cheeks go warm and I look at the rain instead of you.
The ones where the hero finally stops pretending he is not wanted. I turn back, voice lower.
I keep wondering if you are that kind of hero.Depends. Is the heroine going to keep hiding behind her wine glass?
I set the glass on the table and shift to face you, close enough that my breath touches your jaw.
No. My hand finds your chest, resting over the fabric, feeling your pulse.
But you should know I have never done this part before. Be patient with me.I can be patient. (For a while.)
I smile, slow and a little wicked, and lean in until my lips are a whisper from yours.
Then stop me if you want to. The rain keeps drumming, and I do not pull away.
