Chapter 18 #2
My fingers tighten around my purse strap as I force my feet to move forward, closing the distance between us slowly, even though every nerve in my body is screaming at me to run. Not away but toward. Which is somehow more terrifying.
He lifts his head the moment he hears my footsteps, that downward smile breaking across his face, and when he straightens to his full height, I’m suddenly very aware of how tall he is.
“Hey.” His voice is warm, almost relieved. “I was starting to think I’d have to go find you again.”
“I’m sorry,” I manage, my eyes flicking from his face to the boxes stacked against the wall and back again. “I forgot about the time.”
“Don’t worry.” He shifts his weight, uncrossing his arms, and the movement draws my attention to the way his shirt stretches across his biceps. “I don’t mind waiting for you.”
For you. Not waiting but waiting for you.
I stop in front of him and frown at the boxes. “What are those?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull back if I want to, but I don’t.
Can’t. His palm is warm when it cups my cheek, his thumb brushing just below my ear in a touch so gentle, my breath goes unsteady.
He uses that hand to guide me closer, not pulling, but…
inviting, and I go, tilting my head back as he leans down.
His lips press against the corner of my mouth, soft and so close to an actual kiss that my heart does a backward flip.
“Hey,” he murmurs against my skin.
“You already said that,” I manage to press out, my voice breathy.
He chuckles. “But you didn’t say it back.”
“Hello,” I whisper, because apparently that’s all my brain can manage right now.
He pulls back slowly, enough to look into my eyes, and we stand there, his hand still on my cheek, and my pulse thundering in my ears.
“All right,” he says finally, his thumb stroking across my cheekbone before he lets go. He claps his hands together once, the sound loud in the quiet hallway, breaking whatever spell we were under. “Let’s do this.”
“Do what exactly?” I ask, already digging for my keys with the tips of my still-tacky nails, only to have anything other to do than stare at his eyes, before fumbling to get the right one into the lock.
“This.” He gestures at the empty space behind my door as I push it open.
I step inside, and he follows, after bending to pick up the first box with an ease that suggests it’s not nearly as heavy as it looks.
Paul surveys the space with that same clinical focus he had when patching up my road rash, his jaw tightening slightly.
“So?” I set my purse and the nail polish bag on the kitchen counter. “What’s in the boxes?”
He sets the first one down and turns to me. “Furniture.”
“You brought me furniture?”
“Just basics.” He says it casually, already heading back out to grab another box.
My throat tightens as I watch him haul in box after box, stacking them neatly in my living room. “Paul, you didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He sets down the last box and straightens, pushing up his glasses.
Heat crawls up my neck, but so does the nagging feeling that I need to say, “That’s… kind of you, and I appreciate everything you’ve done, but it’s fine. It was an accident. You don’t need to feel guilty about it, and you don’t owe me anything.”
He goes completely still, his hand frozen on top of the box. Then he turns to face me slowly, and there’s something in his expression I can’t quite read. “I need to be more direct with you,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s making a mental note to himself.
“What?”
He looks at me for a long moment, his jaw working.
Then he steps closer, not touching, but close enough I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
“I feel terrible about hitting you with my car, but that’s not why I’m standing in your apartment right now with furniture I spent three hours picking out yesterday. ”
My heart does that stupid flutter thing again. “It’s not?”
“It’s not.” He checks his watch. “I know you have to work in a bit, but I think I should at least be able to set up the bedframe today so you have somewhere proper to sleep tonight.”
“Okay,” I manage, my voice coming out smaller than I intend.
I head into the bedroom, still trying to process what just happened, and become acutely aware of the disaster I left behind this morning.
Clothes are scattered across the floor in organized piles that probably only make sense to me, my suitcases are still open and spilling their contents everywhere, and my makeup bag has exploded across the corner near the mattress.
“Sorry about the mess,” I say quickly, dropping to my knees to start shoving things back into the nearest suitcase. “I know you’re not really… messy.”
He appears in the doorway with the first box, pausing to take in the chaos. A quiet laugh escapes him. “Clocked me already, huh?”
“The white gave you away.” I fold a sweater single-handedly, glad that my nails are finally dry. “Your whole house is very clean. Very… white.”
“Fair.” He sets the box down and crouches to start unpacking the bed frame pieces. “For what it’s worth, I got you a white frame too. If that’s okay.”
“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you…” I pause, watching him work for a moment. “Is white your favorite color?”
“No.” He looks up. “It’s light blue.”
“That’s pretty.”
“Indeed.” His eyes linger on mine before he returns to the box, pulling out hardware and spreading it across the floor in neat, organized rows.
I go back to my suitcase, trying to create some semblance of order, when he speaks again. “You told me yours is yellow, right?”
I did?
“Yes, but I love all colors, really. Rainbows, sprinkles, and all that cute stuff.” I huff out a small laugh. “I know it’s silly. Childish.”
There it is again, that stupid reflex to apologize for liking what I like.
He stops what he’s doing and turns to look at me fully, his brow furrowing. “Why would you say that?”
I shrug, focusing on refolding the same sweater for the third time. “Because that’s what everyone always tells me.”
“And why do you like cute and colorful stuff, Lennon?”
The question catches me off guard. Not the words themselves, but the way he asks, as if he genuinely wants to know.
I set the sweater down and sit back on my heels, thinking.
“When my dad died,” I start slowly. “Everything started feeling heavy. Gray. Like the color was draining out of the world a little bit every day. The funeral home was all dark wood and muted tones. Even the people around me started wearing these… subdued colors. As if brightness was disrespectful or something.”
Paul has stopped unpacking completely now, his full attention on me.
“And I realized that I was starting to dress like that too. Wearing blacks and grays because it felt appropriate. Because grief is supposed to look a certain way.” I pick at a loose thread on my sweater.
“But then one day, I was standing in front of my closet, and I saw this yellow dress hanging there. This bright, sunny, completely inappropriate yellow dress he bought me. And I thought… fuck that.”
His lips twitch, almost a smile.
“I realized that choosing to be colorful, to be soft and cute and bright… that’s maybe childish, yes, but it’s also defiant.”
I meet his eyes.
“It’s saying that the world can be dark, heavy, and hard, and I’m still going to put sprinkles on things, paint my nails yellow, wear fuzzy sweaters, and collect plushies because those things make me happy.
I refuse to let the weight of everything mute me again…
” I pause. “When my mom got sick, it was the only thing keeping me together.”
Paul looks at me, and I start to wonder if I’ve shared too much. But to my relief, he says, “That’s…” He stops, shakes his head. “That’s incredibly brave, Lennon.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “It’s just colors.”
“No.” He turns back to the bedframe pieces, but there’s something different in his posture now. “It’s not.”
We work in comfortable silence for a while—him assembling, me organizing—and I notice how he keeps glancing at me when he thinks I’m not looking.
But I’m looking all the time.
He reaches for another piece of the frame, then pauses. His hand goes to his wrist, checking his watch with a glance. I watch him fit two pieces together, tightening a bolt, and then he does it again, another quick check of his watch, barely a minute after the last one.
Is he nervous? Does he have somewhere to be?
I’m about to ask when he looks up at me, his brow furrowing.
“Don’t you have to get ready for work?”
“Oh, yeah.” I pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. “I guess I should start getting ready soon. I need a shower.”
“Go ahead,” he says matter-of-factly, already turning back to his work.
“I can wait until you’re done,” I offer, gesturing at the half-assembled bedframe. “I don’t want to disappear and leave you with all this.”
“Lennon.” He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me, his expression patient but firm. “Go shower.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”
“I’m sure.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I promise I won’t steal anything while you’re gone.”
“That’s exactly what someone who’s planning to steal something would say,” I point out, but I’m already standing, brushing dust off my knees.
“You caught me.” His eyes glint behind his glasses. “I’m here for the plushie muffin. This whole furniture thing is a cover.”
I laugh, shaking my head as I grab clean clothes from one of my more organized piles. “His name is Mr. Muffin, and he’s non-negotiable.”
“Noted.” Paul returns his attention to the bedframe, but I catch the smile playing at his lips. “Go. I’ll be here when you get out.”
And just like that, something inside me unclenches.
I head toward the bathroom, trying to ignore how my heart does that stupid flutter thing again at his words.
“I’ll be here when you get out.”
It’s such a small thing to offer someone, it costs almost nothing, but I cannot remember the last time a man said anything that sounded like it.