Page 122 of Puck Your Feelings
But I don't ask.
The sun finally breaks over the horizon, painting the gym in soft gold light through the high windows. It feels wrong for such a beautiful sunrise to witness such an ugly moment.
Becker’s looking out the window. The light catches his profile, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the stubble that's grown in overnight.
"What now?" His voice is rough from disuse.
It's such a simple question with such a complicated answer.
"I don't know. How angry are you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He's quiet for another moment. "Well, I'm not happy, that's for sure." He keeps staring out the window, like the answer might be written in the clouds. Then, finally, he turns to look at me, his expression softening just a fraction. "You're hard to stay angry at for long, though."
"Am I?" I'm scared to hope.
He tilts his head. "Don't push it."
I'd push my luck off a cliff if it meant he'd keep talking to me.
"I'm new to this, remember?" I venture, testing the waters.
"Relationships?"
"Being human."
Becker rolls his eyes, but—there. The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but in the same zip code. "Funny."
I’m so busy clinging to that twitch, that barely-there movement, I almost miss the words themselves. "Is that what we are—" I stop, correcting myself, "—were having? A relationship?"
Becker looks at the ceiling and takes a moment. "More like... a situationship." He pauses, and something shifts in his expression. "Unless..."
"Unless...?" My throat closes around the word.
Becker looks at me, straight into my eyes for three entire eternities, before he gives me the rest of that sentence. "Unless you want to upgrade?"
The air leaves my lungs.
Want to.
Not "wanted." Not "could have." Want.
"Upgrade? As in... not past tense?"
My voice comes out so fucking small it’s barely even there.
Becker lets out a chuckle—the first real laugh I've heard from him since...I don’t know when, but way too fucking long. "What? You thought I'm that easy to get rid of?"
I don't think.
I don't plan.
I don't run through the seventeen different scenarios of how this could go wrong in a fraction of a second.
I launch myself forward, closing the two feet between us like it's the most important distance I've ever covered. My hands find his face, his jaw rough with morning stubble under my palms, and I kiss him like I'm trying to apologize with my mouth since words clearly aren't my strong suit.
He tastes like pain and second chances.
Something wet hits my hand.
