Page 68 of The Storm

His big toe drags over the arch of my foot.

A current travels down my spine.

I push myself off the counter, flinging myself across the space between us. My hands grab the edge of the island as I lean over him. My forehead touches his. Noses brush.

I close my eyes.

I breathe him in.

Wait with bated breath.

“It’s getting late,” he whispers.

“Is it?”

He nods, forehead moving against mine.

He presses his lips together.

His breathing is so loud this close.

I watch him fight himself.

I watch him fight against what he wants to do.

He fights so hard it’s visible and audible. He might as well punch himself—it’d be less effort at this point.

I don’t know why he does.

I don’t understand.

He turns his head. Now my forehead is against his temple.

“You should go to bed,” he says.

It’s a bit like being dunked in ice water.

“Oh,” I say.

I stay for a moment longer, pressed against him. Maybe he’ll change his mind.

He stays so still that he doesn’t even seem to be breathing anymore.

I close my eyes and nod.

Then I force myself to pull back.

This is rejection.

I’ve practically thrown myself at him.

Not practically. I threw myself at him pretty fucking literally.

I pick up what’s left of my pride and head out of the kitchen.

“Night,” he says softly when I’m in the doorway.

I fight the urge to turn around and look at him. Instead I nod once, then retreat to my room.