Page 41 of Light

"Like the kind of friends, who hold hands and kiss? Is he your boyfriend?"

My face heats up, and I clear my throat, looking away from him for a moment before settling myself to answer my son. "No, he's not my boyfriend. He's just a good friend. But..." I move a little closer to Tyler as I continue to speak.

He and I have never really talked about my romantic life. There was never a need. I've never found anyone who I wanted to explore with, but maybe Light is different. "How would you feel if he was? Do you like Light?"

Tyler's eyes brighten instantly, and a wide smile grows on his face, "Yeah mom, Light is the best. I'd be okay if he was your boyfriend. You deserve to go out on dates and stuff like that. It would be good." He nods his head once and turns to go back in the living room.

The conversation is over for him, but it's still running rampant in my mind.

Did my son just give me the green light to date? Is it selfish of me to even be considering it?

Before I can get too deep into the rabbit hole, everything dims, except for the sound of a motorcycle rumbling in our direction.

Light.

Taking a breath, I smooth my hair down and try to slowly make my way to the door so I can greet him.

As I open the door, he's getting off his bike.

God, the man is one sexy specimen. Every movement shows the muscles and strength in him. Even fully clothed, I can't help but picture what it would look like if he were to take me. How small he would make me feel. How protected.

I don't need to tell him that, though. Light is already confident enough. If I were to tell him I thought he looked good, I'm sure his already over inflated head would just cause him to float away.

Light catches sight of me standing in the doorway and flashes a grin that nearly buckles my knees.

"Hey, beautiful," he says, voice low and rough like gravel.

Before I can even think of a witty comeback, he steps closer. His hand brushes my hip lightly as he leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek.

The contact is innocent.

It should be innocent.

But I linger a second too long, caught in the warm press of his lips and the rough scrape of stubble against my skin.

I finally force myself to step back, clearing my throat and reaching for his hand to tug him inside.

As soon as our fingers link, I feel it.

The sharp flinch he tries to hide.

I glance down automatically and catch sight of his knuckles, bruised and torn, the skin split in jagged little slices.

My stomach twists.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.

His jaw tightens for a second, but then he shrugs it off with a crooked smile.

"Something dumb," he says, like that explains anything.

Before I can press him, he squeezes my hand gently and steers me into the house like he can distract me with a touch.

Maybe he can.

Maybe I let him.

We fall into our familiar rhythm, the three of us.

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