She rests the broom against the counter and leans closer to me to turn on the faucet. Her arm brushes against the fabric of my sweatshirt and I move out of her way.
“I don’t know. I just picture you being some sort of artist.” I run my hand over my hair and little bits of sugar fall onto the floor. “I don’t really know what I’m talking about.”
“You should have taken that off before I swept.” Nora’s fingers wrap around a string from my sweatshirt and I look down, watching her hand.
“Probably,” I say, and she takes a step closer.
I hold my breath.
Her eyes catch mine and she sucks in a quiet breath between her teeth. “Sometimes it feels like you know me more than you should,” she whispers—and I can’t move.
I can’t breathe, or move, or even speak when she’s this close. Even with sugar covering her, she’s so painfully stunning that I can barely look at her.
“Maybe I do,” I tell her, somehow feeling the same.
Truthfully, I barely know anything about her, but maybe it isn’t about knowing the factual things. Maybe it doesn’t matter if I know her mom’s name, or her favorite color. Maybe it doesn’t take years to know people like we assume; maybe the important things are much, much simpler. Maybe it matters more that we see deeper, that we know what kind of friend they are, or that they bake cakes for people they don’t know without being asked.
“You shouldn’t,” she says, still staring up at me.
Without thinking, I take a step closer to her and she closes her eyes.
“Maybe I should.”
I don’t know who I am in this moment. I don’t feel nervous about being so close to such a beautiful woman. I don’t feel like I’m not good enough to be touching her face.
I barely have any thoughts running through my mind.
I like the silence inside my head that she seems to bring.
“We can’t,” she says, in a voice that’s barely audible.
Her eyes are still shut and my hand is on her cheek without me even knowing that I put it there. My thumb traces the outline of her pouty mouth, and I can feel the quickening of her pulse where my palm rests on her neck.
“Maybe we can,” I whisper.
In this moment, all I know in the world is that her hands are gripping the fabric of my sweatshirt, and despite the doubt in her words, she’s pulling me closer.
“You don’t know how bad I am for you.” The words rush out of her mouth and her eyes peer open just a fraction . . . and my heart swells.
There’s pain there, a deep pain shredded through the dark green and the flakes of brown. Her pain is visible to me for the first time, and I can feel the weight of it in her hooded gaze. Something shifts and locks into place inside of me and I don’t have the words to explain it. I want to heal her. I want her to know that everything will be okay.
I want her to know that pain is only permanent if we allow it to be.
I don’t know the origin of hers, but I’m certain that I would do anything to take it away from her. My shoulders can bear the weight of her pain. They are strong, built for supporting, and I need to her know that.
I feel fiercely protective of her now, as if she’s been mine to guard for my entire existence.
“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Nora warns, and I quiet her with my thumb against her lips. She parts them under my touch and exhales a quiet sigh.
“I don’t care,” I say, and mean it.