6. Astrid
Ididn’t expect for Sean to help me so much. I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong, but…
I watch as he carries another box of my books down the stairs as if it weighs nothing. His shirt riding up against his body, showing off his muscled stomach.
It doesn’t hurt to look, right?
“Where do you want the ones labeled books?” he asks. “And why are there so many of them?”
That snaps me out of my appreciation. “Put them in the bedroom. There are two bookshelves in the back of the truck.” I’m not sure I have a future as a mover. The way I packed that box truck to the brim with little plan or organization makes it much harder on me to put things away.
“You can just stay here,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be taking it easy on that injury?”
I follow him back up the stairs, ignoring his comment, but regretting it immediately when I see how good he looks from behind. Those broad shoulders leading to his waist…
Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.
Sean jumps up on the truck, pushing what remains to the edge so that I don’t have to climb up again.
“Take that one,” he nods to the far right, “it’s the lightest one. Everything else is too heavy for you to carry on that ankle.”
“I already told you, it’s fine.” I lift up my leg as if it shows the proof. “See.”
He just laughs, hopping off the ledge and grabbing the biggest box.
I really could do this myself. It is not like a moving team loaded the thing. I have all day today and tomorrow to do this. There is no rush.
I think back to the things he’s said. He’s an athlete. A professional one. That probably explains his enthusiasm. It’s not me, it’s the challenge of it. Like he said, this is his daily workout. I’m sure he’s competitive about everything.
The worst part of being short is not being able to see above things. I should’ve taken him up on his offer to do the rest. Stupid box. I crane my neck around the cardboard edge, trying to judge if I’m near the last step. It is going to take me a lot more trips before the muscle memory of this house kicks in.
“Oh,” I let out a half-muffled scream as I miss the step and begin to fall, the box tipping out of my arms and falling over the unrailed side of the staircase.
Before I can think to brace myself, Sean is there. I land against his chest, his outstretched arms wrapping around me to keep me steady. His body is hard, or maybe it’s just the fall. And he doesn’t let go as he cages me against his body.
I’m thankful for our height difference because he can’t hear my heartbeat faster. Because it definitely didn’t start until after I was safe.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Y-you can put me down now.”
He lets go. Stepping back to give me space.
I try to take a step and crumble. I must’ve hurt my ankle again when I fell.
Sean is right by my side again. This time, he picks me up, cradling me against his body to the loveseat.
He sets me down on the couch, then repositions my leg, elevating it against the arm rest and tucking a pillow beneath my knees so I’m more comfortable.
“Stay there. I’ll be back with ice.”
It only takes him two minutes, max.
Sean brings the pizza down with the ice pack and two Advil. There is no kitchen down here, not that I imagine he’ll allow me to get up anytime soon.
“Does it hurt?” he gingerly places the ice pack around my ankle. He walks away to get me a water. “Here, take this.” He hands me the Advil.
“It’s fine.” It’s mostly the truth. Eventually, I know it’ll be fine. But in this moment, it hurts like hell. And I probably won’t be able to run for a while.
He doesn’t move until I take the pills, to which I roll my eyes dramatically in front of him so that he understands just how ridiculous this all is. Then he doubles down, dragging over the armchair to be next to me.
Way too close to me.
He pulls the coffee table towards us, careful not to spill the water. “That way you don’t have to move,” he explains. His arm brushes against mine as he reaches out to grab me a slice.
I hate the way skin to skin contact makes me shiver.
I swallow my nerves with bites of pepperoni. He’s just another guy. He’s not special.
“You don’t have practice today?” I ask. I don’t know the first thing about hockey. I’m a football fan, myself. But I assume the same principles apply.
“Nope.” He opens his mouth and shoves the entirety of the slice inside.
I blink to make sure I’m not imagining things. “You uh,” I can’t think of anything else to say, too distracted by the sight of him. His hands are the size of the plates. Dinner plates.
I remember what it felt like to be held tight against his chest. I wonder what it’d feel like to have those hands on the rest of my body.
“I take it that you’re not a hockey fan, then?” he asks, fighting against a long string of cheese that’s stuck to the pizza.
I look up at him. Is he mad? Should I lie. Then he laughs, his face softening. “Most people I know in Jersey aren’t, don’t worry. I’m not offended.”
“Okay good,” I exhale in relief. “I do like sports though,” I offer.
“Just not mine.”
I wince. Not better.
“I’m teasing you, relax.” He nudges me with his shoulder. This time he doesn’t move away.
The space where his body touches mine sparks again, leaving behind a strange, heated sensation over my skin. Except this time, I think he feels it too.
The distraction makes me clumsy. “Shit.” I stretch out my white shirt to see the big, red marinara stain. I knew better than to wear this.
“Stay here. Let me help.” Sean heads into the bathroom and comes back out with a small, wet hand towel.
“Here.” He hands it to me.
I dab at my shirt. It’s not perfect, but I think it’ll work until I can get stain remover or something. I go to set it on the coffee table, but Sean takes it from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine.
“I’ll take it, don’t worry—” he stops, looking down at me, then smiles. “You missed a spot, here,” he crouches down to be closer to eye level and dabs at a spot. He’s careful not to touch me, but my breath stills anyways, and my sharp intake of air catches his attention.
His gaze lingers on my lips and then back to my eyes.
And then he stands. “Do, uh, do you want more to drink?” he asks, getting up suddenly. “I can get you more water.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, halfway up the stairs before I regain the ability to speak.