Page 53 of Soft Flannel Hank

He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders back. His shirt suddenly felt too small, too tight. Or maybe that was his chest. Maybe it felt like his ribs were outgrowing his skin. The tightness was palpable. He took a deep breath in through his nose. Out of his mouth. Once again, remembering something about down-regulation that Nadja had talked about.

He wasn’t having a panic attack. It was more that he was in a fight against himself, with his body scratching and clawing to get closer to Esther, to be in her orbit, while his brain held him back.She’s leaving. She’s leaving. She’s leaving. She’s leaving and goddammit, you wouldn’t survive it.

“Hank?”

He exhaled quickly, not realizing that he’d held that last breath until she broke his reverie. She was holding a box of pancake mix and a can of coffee.

“Where do you want these?”

“Here,” he said, reaching his hands out to take them from her, startled by how very domestic this moment was beginning to feel. The simple act of putting groceries away with someone. Of taking items from their hands and placing them on a shelf.

He turned and took the step to the narrow pantry, empty except for a few hodgepodge items. He placed the pancake mix on the top shelf, where he used to put breakfast staples. Where Marnie had put breakfast staples. The can of coffee would go in the cabinet next to the sink, over the coffee maker, where he kept filters.

Esther stood by the table, watching him as he opened the cabinet, lifted the stack of coffee filters, and placed the can of coffee behind them. With his fingers, he brushed a few stray coffee grounds out of the cabinet, watching them fall to the countertop. He spun around the return to the table, but Esther was there. Close.

With his ass pressed against the counter’s edge, her chest was less than a foot from his. Her head was cocked to the side again, brows furrowed, giving her the look of a bird who was trying to figure out whether the ground was safe or not.

Seeming to decide that it was, she lifted her hand to rest on his sternum, warmth immediately radiating out of her palm. He wanted to push his body into her hand. Instead, he took a deep breath, feeling his ribs press against her palm as they expanded with the air, which didn’t feel like enough. Not nearly enough. Neither air nor contact.

“I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me, Hank,” she said, her voice soft and husky.

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” she replied, looking at him with bright eyes, her eyebrows in their normal, restful place. Hank internally sighed in relief. She wasn’t trying to see him anymore.

He wanted to sayI’m glad I could helporI’m glad I can keep you safe.Those were true statements and safe enough to say. But what came out of his mouth instead was, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Oh, hell.

“I’m glad I’m here too.”

Fucking hell.

Those words hurt him. No, that wasn’t true. They feltgood—so fucking good—like warm summer sun on your bare back. But eventually that warmth always changed from a gentle rush to a scalding burn, and you would feel the pain long after.

Hank was glad she was here, but he was waiting for that burn. He was waiting to be left. Again. But then she leaned in closer. And then closer still. Hank gripped the counter so hard that he was frankly surprised he didn’t rip chunks of it out with his fists, just to keep from touching her, from shoving his hands into those damp curls and feeling them slide like seaweed through his fingers.

He stopped breathing. He stopped thinking. All he could focus on was her peach slice of a mouth as it came closer and closer to his own, as she pushed up onto her tiptoes and gently pressed her lips to his. She tilted her head slightly, her lips pressing against his again.

The hand that was resting against his pounding heart slowly slid up his chest and over his shoulder to thread into his hair, which was down and loose. Her other hand was suddenly against his cheek, cupping his jaw as she kissed him. Hank couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything so soft.

Esther’s tongue slid against the seam of his lips, and Hank was gone. Tumbling headfirst into the chasm of that feeling. His right hand burrowed into her wet curls, marveling at how cold they were against his hot skin. His other hand banded around her back and pulled her closer against his chest, feeling her body curl around the hard roundness of his belly. His fly pressed painfully against his growing erection but he made no moves to adjust himself, finding a strange sort of pleasure in the discomfort as Esther brushed her tongue against his.

The last time they came together, it had been with teeth and a clawing sort of desperation that had him trying to climb inside her body itself. But as Esther kissed him in the warm quiet of his kitchen, he felt as if he could stop time and keep this moment forever like a photograph.

He moved his hand lower and took a handful of her ass, sliding the sweatpant material over her curves. She gasped into his mouth and wrapped her arms around his neck. Hank lowered his head to place soft, open-mouthed kisses against her throat, wanting to suck hard on her freckled skin and leave a hundred marks, one for every time he’d thought about her already that day.

She whimpered, pressing her body more firmly against his. He kissed across the dip at the base of her throat and made his way up the other side of her neck, sucking gently at the corner of her jaw.

“I’m glad we’re going to make the most of this time together while I’m here.”

While I’m here.

I’m so ready to go.

I can’t wait.

As if someone had tossed a bucket of cold water in his face, Hank lifted his head. Esther tried to dive for his mouth, but he leaned away sharply, the back of his head knocking against the upper cabinet. He reached behind him and clasped her wrists in gentle hands, pulling them away from his neck and dropping them by her sides.