Page 148 of Wild Then Wed
He scoffs, like I’ve offended him. “You like being with Hank more thanme?”
“Is that even a real question?”
He grins widely at that and it changes his whole face. It makes him look younger somehow, like someone turned a light on from the inside. “Can’t say I blame you.”
We fall into a quiet moment, the sort that hums just under the surface. It feels like standing too close to the edge of something and pretending you’re not thinking about what it would feel like to let go.
“Thank you,” he says, softer this time.
“You’re welcome.”
He looks at me for a second longer. Then, without warning, he reaches out and taps a finger lightly to the tip of my nose. “You have some paint right there.”
Then my cheekbone. “And right there.”
And—after the briefest hesitation—my forehead. “And there.”
If it were anyone else, I’d hate that. I’d pull back. Laugh it off. Make space.
But it’s not anyone else. It’s him.
And instead of flinching, my body softens like some part of me already knows he won’t take more than I’m willing to give. As if it’s safe here, in this small radius of breath and closeness and spearmint.
His eyes meet mine again—soft, steady—and something in me wavers, but he doesn’t push it.
He just lets his hand fall, and with one last look, turns and walks out.
And I don’t exhale until he’s gone.
* * *
Later that night, when the house is quiet and I should absolutely be asleep, I find myself in the kitchen—barefoot and half-awake—for a glass of water.
Instead, I open the drawer by the fridge—the one that barely has anything in it except two rogue batteries and a yellow legal pad with a crease down the middle like it’s been folded, forgotten, then flattened again.
It reminds me of what he said earlier, about the notes he used to leave his dad. About how much he loves them.
I don’t really think—I just tear off a sheet and grab a pen from the jar near the sink. The ink skips a little at first, but it works. I sit down at the island, tuck my leg underneath me, and start to write.
Sawyer,
What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?
Sofishticated. (I’ll be here all week. Literally. Ha ha).
Also your kitchen only has like, three things in it. It stresses me out.
-W
I stare at it longer than necessary, debating whether to rewrite it. Then briefly, seriously, consider lighting it on fire, which feels dramatic but also not entirely out of character for me.
In the end, I leave it on the kitchen island, just to the right of the sink—where I know he’ll see it. The man is pathologically committed to washing his hands at least a dozen times a day.
I switch on the light above the stove, that small glow that sayssomeone was here, and head to bed before I can talk myself into anything else.
Chapter 25
SAWYER
