Chapter 7 — Read It to Me （Nora） #2
“Liar. Scoot over. You're too warm right there.” I bumped his knee with mine, light, teasing, and then I held it there one beat too long because I liked the heat too much to give it up.
He breathed out slow, and his shoulder brushed mine as he shifted, and his voice dropped to a rough hush.
“You're warm too. That's not a complaint.”
“Scoot? A little? We're gonna short-circuit the table.” I made myself shift six inches to the right, and the cool air rushed in where his leg had been, and my skin prickled at the loss.
Restraint won, barely, and I pressed my palms flat to the oak to keep them honest. “Okay,” I said, a little breathless.
“Blitz. Talk me through it. Use your words, Hale.”
He cleared his throat and squared the play sheet again, and his ears were red, and his marker hovered over the deep corner route.
“Backer shows here,” he said. “Then — then he bails. The star opens late. You have to wait for it.” I nodded, and I made my breathing match his, slow and even, and I let the work pull us both back to solid ground.
The door stood half open to the hall when Marisol paused in the doorway with a stack of folders hugged to her chest. Her smile was warm but sharp around the edges, and her eyes flicked to our notebooks spread across the oak table. “You two keeping those notebooks zipped around here? You'd better.”
Her voice held a joking lilt that wasn't fully joking, and my stomach tipped sideways, and I sat up straighter in my door-side chair.
“Zipped, labeled, and guarded with my life,” I said, and I patted my notebook without opening it.
“Nothing leaves this table. Tutor's honor.” Beck's jaw tightened once beside me, and his hand flattened over his own notebook cover.
“Good tutor,” Marisol said, smooth as silk, and she shifted her folders higher. “Facility rules. You know how it is. Keep up the good work, you two.” She moved on down the hall, heels clicking, and the sound faded into the locker slam and chatter. I let out a long breath and looked at Beck.
I let it sit without poking at it, and I slid the blitz card to the center of the table where we could both reach it.
“Okay,” I said. “Walk me through this one.
Pretend I'm the quarterback and I'm very cute but very confused.” That earned me a quick, startled grin, and his shoulders dropped, and the tight air loosened.
“You're not confused,” he said. “You see it.”
I pointed at the backside stem, the faint crossing line he had drawn lightest of all.
“This one?” I asked. “He sits down soft behind the blitz, right?
Like he's hiding behind the loud guys and then — bam. Star.” I used his own constellation words back at him on purpose, and I watched his face change.
He looked up fast, surprised and pleased and lit from inside, and then guarded again, like joy was something to ration.
“You said it right. The backside star. You saw it.” His voice caught on the middle of it, rough and quiet, and his eyes held mine a beat longer than tutoring strictly required.
My chest went warm and fizzy again, and I ducked my head so he wouldn't see how much those few words landed.
“I had a good teacher,” I said. “Tall guy. Draws stars. Kind of a perfectionist about pens.”
“Read it to me. Please. I read it better when I hear it.” He slid the blitz card toward me and tapped the backside progression, and his voice had gone soft and direct in a way that made my ribs ache.
I blinked at him, and something stung behind my eyes, because he asked like it cost him something and like he trusted me with the cost.
I read the progression aloud, slow and clear, tracking each stem with my fingertip while the radiator hissed under the windows.
“Backside star sits soft. Waits out the blitz. Quarterback holds the safety, then comes back late.” My voice sounded steadier than my hands felt, and his breathing slowed as I spoke, and his fingers stopped lining the marker caps.
“Like that?” I asked. “Did I — did I get the music right?”
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice came out hushed, and his knee found mine again under the table, brief and warm, and then he shifted back like he had to.
“Yeah. That's exactly it. When you say it, it stays.” I felt heat climb up my neck, and I laughed, soft and a little shaky, and the sound snorted at the end no matter how hard I tried to swallow it.
His whole face changed, lit and fond, and he stared at me like I had handed him something rare.
“Don't,” I said, and I covered my mouth with one hand.
“Don't say it. I snort. It's terrible. It's my worst thing.” He shook his head, still looking at me, and his voice went quiet and sure.
“It's my favorite sound,” he said. “Don't hide it.”
Footsteps crowded the hallway, practice letting out, voices rising and pads thumping lockers in a rolling wave of noise.
I glanced at the tall windows where the thin sun had gone flat and gray, and I started stacking my handouts while Beck capped his markers in a row, black and blue and red, caps clicking soft.
The room felt smaller with the hall that loud, and warmer, and harder to leave.
“Same time Thursday? Four? Don't be late, Hale.” I zipped my tote and slung it onto my shoulder, and I kept my tone teasing so the tightness in my chest wouldn't show.
He stood too, tall enough that he had to duck his head near the doorframe shadow, and he squared his chair to the table out of habit.
“I'll be early,” he said. “I'm always early.”
“I know,” I said, and I smiled up at him, and for one long second I forgot the door was there at all.
The radiator ticked, and the rain hushed against the brick, and his hand lifted like he might fix my tote strap and then dropped back to his side.
Restraint hummed between us, sweet and aching, and I stepped back first before my body voted otherwise.
A shadow filled the doorway, broad and breathless, and Cole Danner crowded in with his practice shirt damp and a wrinkled install sheet folded in his fist. He glanced from Beck to me, quick and almost nervous, and held the sheet out toward me like it weighed more than paper should.
“Hey, tutor-girl — could you read this sheet out loud for me? I'm —”
“Yeah? Of course. Gimme — gimme half a second.” The words left my mouth fast and warm, and I set my tote back down and reached for the sheet.
Beck had gone very still beside me, his hand frozen on his marker row, and his eyes fixed on the wrinkled paper in Cole's fist. My fingers brushed the edge of the sheet, and the hall noise swelled behind Cole, and something in my chest went quiet and alert.