I try not to think about him, but it only makes it worse. I keep seeing his eyes in front of me, that grin that saysI’m harmless but not quite. I wonder what that slightly ruthless streak on his mouth would feel like on mine.
Would he be ruthless with me or would he try to be gentle for my sake? I wouldn’t want him to hold back with me. Maybe because a part of me is curious to see where the road leads if he decides to take me on a ride.
Maybe I would love it. Maybe I would regret it...
When my throat constricts with thirst, I get out of bed to go and grab a glass of water.
I tiptoe down the staircase, careful not to stumble on any steps. Turning on the light in the hallway, I flinch when I notice that a light is already lit in the living room.
Did I forget to turn it off?
Walking into the living room, I freeze in the doorway at the sight of Stan sitting on my cream couch, wearing only grey pajama pants. He looks up when he hears me, his eyes tightening but he doesn’t scramble. Doesn’t even try to hide what he’s doing.
I just stand there, not really understanding why he would be doing this.
On the TV there’s a home video playing, the sound muted. It was taped during one of my rare vacations. Me, bicycling down a dusty road and waving at the camera. Me, climbing up a mountain with cheeks that look like two red apples from the effort.
Me, spinning on a square in Milan while doves are flying around me.
And then there’s the photos of me, that he has spread out over the coffee table. I swallow, because I didn’t expect this. It’s so personal somehow. A little intrusive. Which is why I have no idea why my body is acting like it’s just been dipped in a pool of gooey, warm honey.
“Stan...” I say hesitantly, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, “where did you get those?”
His brows knot, a first flicker of nervousness like he’s worried I’ll have a breakdown. “I was looking for a file. There’s a leaky pipe in the basement.” He gestures with his hand. “But then I found these and I just couldn’t stop looking.”
It’s late. He should be asleep. He’s got work tomorrow, hard work that requires a lot of physical strength and he’s going to need his rest and yet he decides to sit and look at...
Little, old me.
I don’t need a mirror to know that I’m turning pink. “Why?” I whisper and a frown shows on his face like he’s not entirely sure himself.
“I just couldn’t.”
It’s such a simple answer. Honest somehow and I can’t help but to smile at him.
And he gets that expression on his face again. All mine.
It makes me squirm. Makes me feel warm all over and I smooth my hair with my hand. “Do you mind if I sit down and join you?”
He puts his arm over the couch’s back, making space for me and giving me his answer. I curl up next to him, fully aware of that I’m skimpily clad in satin pajama shorts and a short sleeved night shirt. But he’s not wearing much either, a slight sheen covering his skin and he’s got a fine smattering of golden hair on his chest.
His chest looks comforting and safe, making me want to rub my face against it just to see if he’s bristly or soft. And if his chest looks safe, then his arms look like two weapons with well-defined muscles and they move under his skin every time he shifts his position.
“Couldn’t you sleep?” he asks, his eyes going to my mouth because they tend to do that a lot. And my throat. He looks at my throat a lot too.
I shake my head. “Nervous.”
It makes him tense a little, the veins on his arm popping. “About what? About me?”
He sounds so worried that I let out a little laugh. “You? No. Why would I be worried about you when you make me feel so...” I search for the right word, “secure.”
“Is that what you need from me?” A determined streak flares in his eyes. “Protection?”
Our knees brush together. Barely but that small touch, makes my body fiercely reactive.
My mouth drops and I grow flustered. “I...d...don’t know what I need,” I stutter, my eyes darting and they go to one of the photos. It was taken a couple of years ago in my garden and I’m squinting at the sun.
The expression on my face is confident. Probably different than it is now. Can Stan tell? Can he tell how doubtful I am these days? Does he even care?