Your Biggest Fan

25. ROXANNE

Chapter twenty-five

Are you kidding me?

“What are you doing here?” I demand of the Noah Jackson, who is currently standing in my front yard and dropping a handful of gravel. “And how do you know where I live?”

I think there’s a million butterflies doing the Macarena in my stomach.

He chuckles, stepping closer and resting his hands on the open window ledge. “Let’s just say Stephanie isn’t exactly CIA material when it comes to keeping secrets.”

Those stupid butterflies conga faster.

“Okay… but you still haven’t told me why you’ve come to darken my window.”

“Darken? I was hoping I’d brighten it.”

I roll my eyes, knowing my cheeks are already coloring. “I’m waiting, Jackson.”

Noah presses a palm to his heart and gestures dramatically with the other. “Why my dear, I was simply passing by your neighborhood on my constitutional and thought I’d pop in for a spot of tea. Is this a bad time, perchance?”

I snort at his dumb fake English accent. “Yeah, actually. I’m in the middle of an intense scene where Muldoon blows up a raptor with a bazooka.” I wave my Jurassic Park paperback at him. “That’s important stuff.”

“Dinosaurs and rockets?” He braces his arms on the ledge. “You know, some might call that animal cruelty.”

“Those raptors had it coming.”’

“So bloodthirsty. I like it.”

“Can you move a little to the left, actually?” I smirk, even though I know it’s not the same as when he does it. “You’re blocking my reading light.”

Noah shifts slightly, then leans in closer, peering at the book. “What’s the body count so far? Humans or dinosaurs?”

I sigh, setting the book on my shelf next to the window. “One dude so far. The raptors are getting the edge. Clever girls.”

“Sounds like quite the thriller,” Noah says, his interest seeming genuine. He glances around my room, then back at me. “I could probably appreciate the finer points of raptor warfare better if I wasn’t hanging off your window ledge.”

I raise an eyebrow. The view from down here is so much better than what’s seen on stage from him. “Oh? What do you propose as an alternative?”

Noah’s lips stretch into a smile as he drums his fingers against the wood. “Well, you could stop wasting your precious reading time and invite me in.”

“Why? Are you a vampire and in need of an invitation?” The words slipped from my lips before I could stop myself. At least vampires are the king of consent.

“Come again?” Noah blinks up at me, and I burst out laughing as I realize my little joke may have been too obscure.

“Nothing. Just checking something.”

Mentally, I grab the chalk in my head and erase a tally off the vampire board, still wondering what the hell he’s doing here. My house has always been strictly off-limits to pretty much anyone except Stephanie and Tyler—not even Harley had ever set foot inside. And my mom, sober since getting out of the hospital last week, is in one of her unpredictable “good days,” meaning she's alert and could likely overhear any conversation from this room.

I never wanted Noah to witness this part of my life. Ever. To make matters worse, I'm dressed in my gray sweats that are cuffed at the ankles, a black tank top, and a red flannel shirt with frayed sleeves. Far from my best look.

Noah laughs lightly, shaking his head. “Is this how you greet all your gentleman callers?”

“Is this how you tackle all of your conquests? Throw rocks at their bedroom windows?”

“It does seem like a solid strategy, but in all seriousness, I wanted to see you.”

Oh, great. He’s doing that again, his eyes looking at me in that way of his.

I frown, gripping the peeling window frame. “What’s the real reason you’re here?”

His face falls as he glances down, scuffing his shoe against the house. “Nothing, really. I had a bad day.”

“What happened?” The words come out softly, laden with concern, especially with those puppy dog eyes doing some heavy lifting. No one shows up to your house like this without trying to run away from something.

Trust me. I know.

“I got in a fight with Dennis over something. It just got out of hand. You know how it is,” he says with a shrug.

No, I don’t know. Out loud I gently prod, “Who’s Dennis?”

“My stepdad,” he mutters, tapping his knuckles in an agitated rhythm against the window ledge.

“Oh.” I chew on the corner of my lip over the prickle in my chest. Not one of sadness, but more a sting of rejection that he’s never mentioned he has a stepdad before. At the feeling, I take a small step back from the window. “I guess you can come in, but you have to be really quiet,” I relent with a sigh, knowing I can never really say no to Noah, no matter how freaking hard I try.

As I slide the window frame up further, the old wood creaking, my heart races. What am I doing? This is literally asking for me to get into some trouble. It's silly, it's way too late, and yet I feel a rush of excitement and step aside away.

He braces his palms against the windowsill and jumps up, the same hand I'd dreamed about last night pushing me flat on my back, is now straining against my house, hauling his lanky ass up and over my window.

He catches himself with his palms against the carpet, wheelbarrow crawling out further before letting his feet fall lightly to the ground. As he stretches to his full height, dusting his hands of, he smiles his fullest smile and looks even taller in my bedroom.

Oh god. The Noah Jackson is in my bedroom. How is this my life right now?

My heart skips a beat as he spreads his arms wide in a ta-da pose, almost knocking over the lamp near my closet before catching it in time. I wiggle my toes in my socks, a nervous habit, as he slowly slides the window shut, officially locking me in a room with him.

“So.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and surveys the place. “This is the inner sanctum. It’s very… you.”

His gaze travels behind me, taking in the overflowing bookshelf to the right of the window, the posters covering every inch of navy wall space, and the closet bar drooping so low from the number of flannels I have hanging up.

“Um, yeah. Make yourself at home, I guess.”

Having Noah here seems exciting but dangerous like I’m breaking all the rules I’ve set for myself. It’s not until he steps further into my room, his six-foot frame seeming to grow even taller, that the actual panic at having him inside my space hits me.

I dart to my right side of the bed, opposite of the window, and start tossing pillows haphazardly. Throwing my comforter over the sheets to cover any possible stains, I kick my pizza box underneath the bed frame.

God, why didn’t I clean up earlier?

“Lee Aaron, huh?” he remarks, gesturing to the poster above my bed.

“Yeah. You know her?” I start shoving a Three Musketeers wrapper into my night stand drawer that’s already overflowing with junk.

“Oh yeah, I’m very familiar with her...” Noah trails off, a teasing lilt to his voice. “Especially her photo shoots for Oui magazine.”

I roll my eyes, fighting an involuntary smile. “You’re disgusting.”

He laughs and moves on, running his fingers along the white top of my vanity, studying the posters taped on the wall behind my mirror.

“Patrick Swayze too? Let me guess, you’re a big fan of Dirty Dancing?”

My eyes shift downward, landing on a Polaroid photo of me and my dad that fell out. A lump forms in my throat. “No, actually. Ghost takes the cake now.”

He glances back at me, clearly catching the change in my tone. But then that usual I’m-so-hot aura of his quickly returns.

“Isn’t Ghost supposed to be some scary horror film?”

I bark out a surprised laugh as I tuck the Polaroid back into the drawer. “You think Ghost is a horror movie?”

“Is it not? I assumed it was, with the whole ghost thing.”

I place my hands on my hips, heavily eyeing this boy standing amidst my Swayze shrine. “Are you saying Ghost actually scared you?”

He looks back at me from over his shoulder, smiling as he slides his hands into his back pockets. Damn him and those eyes. “I’ve never seen it, but as a grown man I can assure you that I’m not afraid of a horror film.”

He steps closer to my side of the room, looking over the Polaroid and film photos I have tacked up around my media station. I feel strangely exposed, and this might be worse than when I watched my art teacher analyze my drawings right in front of me.

“I am curious though. What genre do you consider it to be in?”

“A romance, obviously.” I shrug, trying to sound normal even though my clothes are feeling too tight. “It has romance, some comedy, and even though the ending is bittersweet, it’s definitely not scary.”

Noah hums thoughtfully as he reaches out and lifts up one of the photos to peek at the ones underneath—a snapshot of me and my friends dressed up as Rocky Horror characters last Halloween. Stephanie made a perfect Magenta, Tyler pulled off Rocky with a wig and gold boots, and I rocked the Frank-N-Furter corset and fishnets. Obviously.

I see his left cheek raise up a little bit. Something about it seems to tickle him.

“You’re telling me Ghost is a mushy romance flick?” he asks, dropping the photo back into place. “Didn’t take you for the hopeless romantic type.”

“What makes you say that?”

He twists to look at me from over his shoulder again. “I guess I figured you were more into horror with these hardcore hair bands all over your walls and creepy books you have everywhere. Although the fishnets and corset were a good look too.”

His wink turns me red, Satan's favorite crayon red. I'm so fucking sure of it.

“Are we going to keep debating my Patrick Swayze poster all night?”

“Debating a movie I haven’t even seen isn’t how I want to spend the evening.” His eyes spark from under that single loose curl that brings the Macarena back in my stomach. “But you still haven’t convinced me Ghost is better than Dirty Dancing.”

“You would like Dirty Dancing. You’re such a Johnny,” I retort, poking his shoulder blade. “I'll have you know, no one disrespects Swayze or calls Ghost a scary movie under my roof and gets away with it. Even when I’m not home.”

“My apologies, I won’t slander your beloved Swayze again.”

It’s killing me to not smile at that. Why does he have to be so damn charming, even when he’s annoying me?

My eyes track him as he wanders over to my record collection, trailing his fingers delicately along the album covers neatly lined up on the shelf. “Can I?”

“Oh, uh, yeah. As long as you promise to please be really careful not to scratch them,” I tell him, messing with the strings of my sweatpants. “They were my dad’s.”

I look down, now fiddling with the plastic aglet on the end of the strings. My records and drum kit, as well as a couple t-shirts, are the only things I really had left of him now.

“He’s got a pretty solid collection. How long has he been collecting?”

“Since before I was born.” I sit on the edge of my bed and hug my flannel around myself. I feel too naked all of a sudden. “He got a lot of them cheap from musician friends who would swap albums. I grew up listening to these.”

Noah nods as he pulls a stack out and cradles them in his arms, oblivious to the tightness creeping into my face at the mention of my dad. He starts shuffling through them, examining the back cover of an Asia album.

The record slides out with a soft shhk , and my face goes hot when his eyes flick over to me. It’s not just a look—it’s a full-on ocular embrace, wrapping around me to the point I can feel his stare touching me while each individual eyelash of his brushes against my skin. The need to clear my throat and look away keeps rising in me, that scribbly sensation circling in my gut. And then my brain, ever-so-helpfully, points out how uncomfortable I feel when there is absolutely no logical reason for me to.

Noah and I hang out every Wednesday and Saturday. It’s ridiculous to feel awkward at all, but having him crawl through my window to see me, standing there all tall and Noah-y, being forced to see his t-shirt do that unfair thing where it tightens over his biceps as he moves, seeing his tattooed arm in my private space, judging my taste in music…

It makes me too aware that we’re alone in my bedroom. And my recent acceptance of having the hots for him isn’t helping.

I burrow my socked feet into the carpet, fighting the urge to squirm under his occasional glances. Good god, we're just friends and I need to get a grip. As if Noah would ever think to pursue me— we're adorable, not hot. We're pondscum, not pond royalty.

I'm the one who humiliated him in public. I've made my bed and it's a friendzoned one with curtains and a “no-kissing” canopy.

I sneak another glance at him. The street lamp slanting through the curtains catches the strong line of his jaw, the roundedness of his lips. Fantastic. The universe is really rubbing it in now.

“Um,” I croak, sounding like a frog with laryngitis, “if you want, you can pick something to play.” I nod towards the record player, hugging myself tighter. “If you don’t mind keeping the volume low.”

“Your dad’s got good taste, at least.” The damn street light accentuates Noah’s lips curving as he continues flipping through the collection. His long-lashed eyes scan the songs, head bobbing when he sees something he likes.

“Yeah, he did. All my taste is thanks to him.” Well, most of it. My taste in awkward silences is all my own.

Then Noah’s lips part open when he flips to an album that seems to be the Holy Grail of vinyl. He pulls it out of the pile in his arms, and I already know that iconic black and white image before he holds it up.

The Stranger by Billy Joel.

“This one.”

I match his grin. “Classic. One of my all time favorites.”

With an eagerness from Noah I don’t think I’ve ever seen before, he shakes his head side-to-side in a little dance and sets the stack of records down. The vinyl slides out of its sleeve with a soft whisper, his eyes lighting up as he places the record on the turntable and sets the needle down.

The first song starts to fill up the room, soft and crackling at first as he joins me on the bed and sinks down on the edge, the old mattress springs creaking under his added weight.

I draw my knees up to my chest, while Noah sways his neck along to the music beside me, glancing at me sidelong as he taps his fingers against his jeans in time with the beat, fitting into my space as if he’d always been there.

His presence fills the entire room and it’s impossible to not look at him. His lids drift shut as he leans back fully onto the duvet, that tiny sliver of skin poking out from underneath his shirt, and I wrench my vision down to his foot tapping on the carpet, then up to his fingers dancing along his chest—anywhere that’s fucking safe.

It’s hard to believe this is the same Heartbreak King of Bellpond High. No bright red jacket, just curls fanned out against the bed. He looks normal . A normal guy chilling in his friend’s bedroom. Except “normal” doesn’t usually make your entire epidermis itch while you stare at his lips moving quietly along with the lyrics he must know by heart.

I occupy myself with untangling a knot I find in my hair, wondering how much of this feeling inside me is due to my personal mission for an intimate connection, and how much of it is him.

The song transitions seamlessly into The Stranger and Noah’s eyes blink open, the silvery moonlight from the window catching the black flecks in his irises. He rolls his head to look at me with a smile that’s pure contentment.

“Do you mind if we lay here and listen?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. We can listen.”

As expected, his smile gets warmer and he starts to crawl backward on his elbows, settling his head onto my mound of mismatched pillows. One hand goes behind his head while the other rests on his hip, elbow jutting out.

Unlike Noah, my body is foreign and stiff while I try to do the same as him, only my body forgets how to, well, body, and I’m laying ramrod straight on the left side with all of the stupid awkwardness of a middle schooler at their first boy-girl sleepover. I might as well have shoved a bookcase between us with how tense I am.

I shove my ass deeper into the mattress, hoping to sink into the dip I’ve slept in every night to make myself less visible. Because I’m laying next to Noah Jackson in the very bed I’ve slept in since my childhood.

Relax, Roxy. Noah is only a dude who happens to be cute and maybe not as horrible as I thought in the first place. I take a deep breath to ground myself. Try to stop resembling a wooden plank, try to stop overanalyzing the precise angle of each limb.

My ears burn too hot when my arms settle at my sides, and I busy myself with rubbing a tiny circle on my sweats with my fingertip to keep myself from touching him. It takes remarkable willpower for me to not fidget while Noah lounges there looking like freaking Sleeping Beauty. His eyes are shut when I take a peek, soaking up the song as his ankles cross and one foot taps against my metal bed frame.

I zero in on his grubby shoes, and if it weren’t kinda sweet seeing him dancing to the music, I’d smack his leg and yell at him to get his dirty ass sneakers off MY blanket. What I’m seeing is a deeply intimate, behind-the-scenes unguarded side of him that I can’t disturb. It's… illegal, somehow.

Then— fuck —his hand. It’s so close to mine, radiating heat like a mini sun. His knuckles barely graze against my pinky. Such a slight touch and it somehow sends lines of electricity up my arm.

I stay totally still and close my eyes, not wanting to say anything— or move —and relax my muscles inch by inch. Think about absolutely nothing as I breathe and let myself melt into the piano notes drifting from the speaker.

“Look at you so relaxed for once,” Noah’s voice murmurs, low and amused. “Should I take a picture? This might be a once-in-a-lifetime sighting.”

My eyes burst open to see him watching from the side, a lopsided grin on his face. His heavy gaze traces the lines of my face before dropping briefly, like it’s involuntarily, to my mouth.

Our eyes meet again and my finger traces faster circles.

“I’m listening to one of my favorite songs right now.” I lick my lips, painfully hot now. “And you’re ruining it.”

His smile doesn’t budge as he shifts his hand ever so slightly, his pinky overlapping mine. The contact sends another spark up my arm but I keep my face just as unchanged.

“Sorry, don’t let me interrupt this musical experience for you,” he says innocently. His thumb now stroking over my knuckles is anything but innocent.

I chew on the inside of my cheek to trap a smile. “I know you don't know how to keep your mouth shut normally, but you’re ruining a very emotional ballad with your antics.”

Noah chuckles, eyes turning up to the ceiling. “My sincerest apologies. I’ll behave.”

His thumb continues tracing my skin. My heart’s starting to beat but it’s more erratic like the drums to In The Air Tonight .

“This must be so difficult for you.” I tilt my head to gauge his reaction. “Having to be good when you always get what you want.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners with something dangerous then. “What can I say? Perks of being blessed in the looks department.”

“Oh yeah, one glance and I sure fell easily.”

“Guess I should dial up the charm even more, really sweep you off your feet.”

I tilt my head further. “Oh? Are you planning to use that charm to woo me?”

Teasing Noah always ends up putting me in weird positions with him, but the slight annoyance that always twitches in his jaw is what gets me going every time. It’s pure catnip.

Noah rolls his head to meet my gaze directly. “I don’t know, are you planning on letting me have my way with you?”

My face has to be turning as red as his favorite color now, either from embarrassment or being weirdly giddy by his bluntness.

“Pretty sure sweeping a girl off her feet requires more than empty words,” I manage to say breezily. Inside though, my pulse starts galloping as I take a steadying breath, trying not to obviously grip the comforter for stability.

Shit, was that too much? Is he going to take that and turn it into action? This back-and-forth is only ever supposed to be harmless fun, not…

Real.

I risk a glance at Noah and immediately regret it. He’s still looking at me with that competitive gleam in his eye that sends an even warmer zing through my body and all the way down to my toes, his tongue tracing along his bottom lip in slow motion.

Jesus, he really is unfairly pretty.

No. Nononono.

Stop it, Rox. We hate him, remember? H-A-T-E.

Reminding myself of that fact, I avert my eyes up to the fan slowly spinning above us, its shadows on the ceiling doing nothing to regain back my sanity. I wet my own dry lips, trying to remember why I ever disliked this boy and coming up blank when his nails start to trace the back of my hand. Because at this point in time, with his tall frame so blistering close to me, he seems to hold the keys to everything I never knew I craved.

Swallowed in more silence, the fresh light patter of raindrops against the window starts to fill the space between us, and that primal need is clawing up my chest again, drying my throat out. I have to do it—I have to mist my eyes back over.

The streetlight through the curtain casts dark shadows of the rainwater trickling down the window onto his skin, giving every line of muscle a dark, sculpted look where his arm is folded behind his head. I want to reach out to trace those contours, to follow the imaginary streaks racing down to the sleeve of his t-shirt and see if it feels as soft as it looks. If he is as soft as the rain.

My gaze becomes a droplet, sliding down one strong bicep, across the line of his jaw, up the column of his throat, past that vein in his neck, to those curls smashed against my pillow. What would it feel like to comb my whole hand through those strands, grip tight and discover if they’re as silky as my secret 2 AM fantasies suggest?

My teeth catch my bottom lip while I continue visually tracing the lines and dips of his face, then our eyes meet.

His are pitch black in the dark, lips curving into a smile that says he can read every less than innocent thought currently raging through my mind.

Shit.

I pinch the side of my thigh for being an idiot and clear my throat. “How about you shut up now and go back to listening to the music in silence? That was your best look.”

He laughs a little, tongue swiping across his lip as his eyes turn back up to the ceiling. “Yeah, I’ll be quiet.”

My lungs release a tiny breath while I re-focus on the music so that my pulse might slow the fuck down.

Shifting my shoulders deeper into the pillow, I detach my tingling hand from his, resting it safely against my thigh and shut my eyes.

It’s officially time to break out the anti lady-boner thoughts: Noah wearing acid-wash jeans. Noah’s smirky face when his band won Battle of the Bands. That time Stephanie threw dried cow manure at me and it landed right in my mouth.

Ugh, gross but effective. Crisis averted.

A few songs pass as we lay in a less intense silence now. Then as Vienna starts up, the mattress dips slightly. My eyes fly open to see Noah rolling over in my periphery.

“Don’t even think about falling asleep here,” I snap, eyes still up at the ceiling. “I have no problem keeping all the blankets to myself.”

A husky chuckle answers. “I don’t need a blanket. I’ll be fine next to you.”

“If you’re staying we are putting up a massive pillow barrier between us. Or I’m grabbing a sleeping bag and crashing outside with the dogs.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Noah shake his head as he drags a hand down his face. “Don’t worry, you can save your pillow wall for someone else,” he muses. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Oh great! So you are leaving then,” I reply brightly, unable to keep the smile off my face. This round goes to me.

Another shift on the bed, and Noah turns on his other side to face me. “Aw, but I want to stay here and cuddle with you all night.”

My heart does a little lub dub and I sit up, gathering armfuls of blankets and pillows. “Well in that case, I’m building a nest on the floor.”

Noah’s lower lip juts out. “Oh, come on. That’s so unromantic.”

“Good thing you prefer horror movies then.” My brain high-fives itself for that zinger.

“You’re not seriously going to sleep on the floor are you?”

“This isn’t for me,” I shoot back over my shoulder, dumping another pillow onto the floor bed. “This is for you.”

“You’re forcing me to sleep on the floor?”

“You forced your way through my window.”

Noah shakes his head, grinning openly now. “Alright, alright, I can take a hint. I shouldn’t get rewarded for that.” But as he sits up on the edge of the bed and puts his hands on his thighs, his smile falls from his face. “I’m sorry I did that. I’ll be out of here.”

As he slouches towards the window and pushes back the curtain, I bite my lip, a knife poking into my conscience. I expected more of a fight from him, not this. So when he starts to unlatch the window, his shoulders slumping and head down low, I start to feel bad because of how pitiful he looks doing it. He looks dejected—like a kid who got put in time out—and I know he doesn’t want to go. He was being nice.

Why is he so nice dammit! It would be so much easier to kick him out if he acted like a dick.

Lightning flashes in the distance, and I wince. As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t really want Noah walking home alone in this storm. He was kind of there for me during my own personal crisis when I barged into his garage and had nowhere else to go, after all. He doesn’t deserve to be tossed out in the rain.

It’s not helping that Billy Joel is singing about good people dying young, and then I get this montage of him as a forgotten kitten in a box floating in a flooded street. With sad kitten ears drooping from his messy curls.

With a groan, I gather up the pile of blankets and toss them back on the bed. Curse my soft spot for wet strays . Noah pauses, glancing between me and the blankets.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

I avoid him, fluffing up the pillows at the headboard. Selfishly, I also hate being alone during storms, but I’m not about to admit that.

“I mean, do whatever you want,” I mumble, then plop into my bed, nestling underneath my comforter and fisting it up to my chest before I throw my arms down at my sides. “I can’t have your death by lightning strike on my conscience.”

His face breaks into a grin, erasing all traces of his earlier sadness. Something warm blossoms in my chest and I stare back up at the ceiling. Stupid .

The window slides closed and he locks it, shutting out the sound of the rain. The mattress dips again under his weight as he sits down tentatively on the very edge. “You sure you’re okay with me staying?”

I peer up to see the crease in his perfect brow, then huff, turning back to the ceiling fan. “Stay on your side.”

This means nothing , I tell myself firmly.

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks, toeing off his shoes before laying on the edge, leaving plenty of non-touching space between us.

I grip the blanket tighter to keep myself together against that buzz of energy swirling in that gap. He sets one arm between us and brings his other arm up behind his head again, slowly closing his eyes.

Okay. You’re fine. This is a normal sleepover, like with Tyler.

I squeeze my eyes shut. Nevermind the distracting man lying mere inches away with his tattooed arm.

This is the same.

I grip the blanket tighter.

A totally normal sleepover situation .

Except not, because Tyler doesn’t hit on you or even like boobs.

A violent, deafening crack of thunder makes me jolt. My hand flings out to clutch at Noah’s wrist, nails digging in as I use the touch of his warm skin to ride out the aftershocks of fear.

“What’s wrong, are you afraid of storms?” he says it all jokey, his voice deep as he turns his head to me.

When the last boom fades, I start to realize how much of a mouth breather I was being while clinging to him. Mortified heat floods my face.

“No, I’m not afraid of storms,” I sneer back, the sound of thunder and rain outside becoming increasingly noticeable. “I got a random leg cramp.”

As if to spite me, another crack of thunder makes me flinch. Noah notices and grins.

“You’re either scared of storms or you’re scared of me.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

My eyes dart to him, his cologne smelling of warm pine perfectly blending into my bed as I cling to his wrist and dig my spine into the mattress when another strike of lightning flashes, followed by a boom of thunder that shakes the walls. My lungs flatten as I attempt to suck in air, staring bug-eyed out the window and into the blackness. Trying not to give away my fear.

I think that ship sailed.

More thunder cracks and rain starts to thrash against the window.

The rain itself has never been the problem. I don’t mind the rain at all, actually, but I really fucking hate thunder. It’s overwhelming, unpredictable, and it’s closing in on me, trapping me in a sound that’s too huge to escape from. Like I’m stuffed inside a giant’s chest and every footstep shakes the world.

The thunder rolls again, as loud as the fists of the same angry giant beating against the roof and walls. Five year old me used to imagine storms were caused by towering Greek Titans in the clouds, stomping around during epic battles that shook the whole sky. And every time, I still feel that claustrophobic, helplessness of being a tiny ant stuck under the sofa while the Titans rage on overhead.

All I can do is deal with each bed rattling punch. There’s nothing I can do to make it stop or turn its volume down. Ever . I’m completely at the mercy of Mother Nature.

It’s scary that anything, even the very sky, can attack without reason or forgiveness. And I’m powerless, insignificant.

I didn’t used to feel this way about the rain though.

Another bright z-shape of lightning flashes down from the clouds, right before another round of thunder claps loud enough to burst straight through the wood of this house.

My hand spasms tighter on Noah’s arm.

Yeah, there’s definitely no hiding my panic now. The jig is up. I’m sure I look completely deranged, wide eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it's going to collapse on my head at any second.

“So, were you bluffing?” Noah snorts at my pathetic state, his tendons flexing underneath my palm.

“Am I bluffing that I’m not scared of storms?” My voice squeaks out like a mouse, which only makes him laugh. “No, I don’t think I am.”

Another sky-boom makes me flinch underneath the blanket. Stupid body, always easily showing what I’m feeling all the time. I grip Noah’s wrist again, tight, not saying anything.

Fear overrules anything else.

What’s that saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Whatever .

I notice his eyes looking up and down my huddled form. As if I needed more reasons to feel self-conscious.

“You’re still scared.”

I give the slightest nod my neck muscles will allow before I can think better of it, not sure if I should tell him that I’ve been afraid of storms for most of my life because of what happened to my dad. Opening up emotionally to Noah seems ill-advised right now, though he deserves some truth since I’m cutting off his circulation with my grip.

Nah .

“We can’t all have your fearless personality. I’m just a tiny, little drowned-rat.”

He releases a heavy breath, and his wrist breaks free from my grip. Before I can snatch it back in panic, his index finger skates over the top of mine.

My breath catches at the warm, rough skin against my knuckles.

I flip my hand over and let my finger drift over his, kind of freaking out over the contrast of roughness and smoothness—hardened pads and edges from guitar strings, yet stupidly soft in between. I trail over the ridge of one nail, testing its glide before circling back to the rough pad at the tip.

Noah makes no move to stop my touching of his hands, but his eyes are on my cheek instead of watching my fingertip’s journey across his skin. The rain continues pelting the window, wind whispering through the trees outside, but the thunder seems to have faded to distant rumbles.

No longer sounding so threatening, my heart eases up.

His hand shifts then, and I pull mine back, scared that I’ve made things weird, and let it fall back to the mattress. Except he surprises me by not moving away.

Slowly, he turns his hand over so that his palm is facing up.

I don’t hesitate and dive into his skin.

He lets my index fingertip trace whatever the hell I want. It starts along the length of his, then climbs the peaks and valleys of each long digit until I’ve mapped the terrain of all five, my earlier fear of the storm fading. I try to avoid the healing blisters on his fingertips, so aware of their sacrifice.

My other fingers join in, gliding over the bumps, every creased line on his palm that marks love, and life. A lightning bolt of fate splits his palm, the warmth and buzzing of his skin against mine so… comforting.

Distracting.

I breathe harder when his long fingers touch the center of my palm. He mirrors me, fingers on their own personal quest to touch all of me. I'm trying not to lose my mind over how good it feels.

The universe shrinks down to this—the slide and catch of skin on skin. I’m lost, melting on a warm seat, my heart pumping at its peak lub dub.

Noah’s thumb outlines my knuckles before coasting up to trace the racing pulse at my wrist, touch so gentle it tickles. I’m not touching his hand anymore. I’m touching Noah. All probably-should’ve-showered-today me, connecting with cool, singing-god him. And he’s letting me.

When his eyes meet mine again, I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.

“I know a secret about you,” he whispers, his touch growing more firm.

I swallow hard, newly aware of how much bigger his hand is than mine. “And what might that be?”

Another crack of thunder brings me back down a notch from the sweetness. Noah keeps my head busy just enough when his fingertips take advantage, slipping under my flannel sleeve, trailing over the thin skin of my inner wrist.

My whole body chills as I imagine those fingers touching piano keys this way, playing out melodies note by note across the scale. Learning intimate secrets only earned through hard work and practice. Has he ever touched a piano at all?

It’s kind of funny. Fingers clearly accustomed to gripping guitar necks now turning so soft and careful. Calloused tips usually so fast and aggressive against steel strings now skimming up my wrist, leaving warm sparks against my veins and the skin of my forearm as gingerly as a pianist’s.

Delicate pianist fingers met with the hardened edges of an aggressive guitar.

Somehow it was all so very Noah.

A quiet sigh pops out of me as liquid warmth ripples through me. As a tiny seed of some weird feeling, small and frail, plants within. It feels soft, fearful, and new .

This is so different from what happened in the bathroom.

Noah still hasn’t responded back, and his gaze is a physical weight on the side of my face that has sweat rolling down my neck, and the moth wings flapping faster in my stomach. The heat of it trickles down my body, raising goosebumps on my legs and warming my center.

For a second, I want to burn.

“I know you’re scared of storms,” he finally rumbles, voice as low as the thunder now.

I bristle, fingers stalling in their movements as I flip around so my back faces him. “What makes you say that?”

That small space between us disappears as Noah’s hand appears, shadow-like against the blanket, hesitating above my hip.

“It makes sense. That night you came over, you were shaky, constantly glancing at the garage whenever the rain hit it. And right now I see the way you respond to thunder.” His fingertips finally make contact. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, heart fit to burst as he splays his palm over my waist.

The bed dips as he shifts closer, close enough to have a chill running down my spine as his breath hits my neck. Not close enough that his body is touching mine—though I’m starting to wish it was and hate myself for it.

“Can I tell you something that I’m afraid of?”

My cheek brushes against the pillow as I nod. “What is it?”

“Stickers,” he confesses with an actual shudder. “They’re harmless, I know. But I fucking hate them.”

I struggle not to smile. Bad boy Noah Jackson is afraid of stickers? I glance back to see how serious he looks and can’t restrain it anymore.

“Stickers? Why ?” I get out between laughs.

“I hate how sticky they are.”

We both stare at each other for a moment before a new fit of giggles bursts out as I imagine Noah running in terror from a sticker-wielding toddler until I’m red faced and breathless.

“You’re scared of them because they’re sticky? What are you, five?”

He groans, the vibrations in my back making my bones warm as he shoves his face in between my shoulder blades. If I was worried before, I’m sure he can hear my heart now.

“I know, I sound stupid, but I don’t like them. That sticky residue it leaves everywhere makes me gag.”

“Oh my god!” I cry, clutching my stomach. “You’re really scared of stickers!”

Still giggling, I shuffle back until I’m nestled against his solid frame, his legs gently warming the back of my thighs through the blanket in a way that only the stage lights on my leather stool has done before. I’m close enough now to feel the brush of his chest against my shoulders with each breath, sending little sparkles down my spine. I don’t notice the rain pounding against my window anymore.

“Shut up before I smother you with this pillow,” he whispers against my neck as he squeezes my side. I snort, elbowing him in the stomach.

“Yeah I’d like to see you try, tough guy.”

“What about you? You have any unusual fears?”

“I actually have a pretty irrational lifelong fear of werewolves.” I pick at the edge of the pillow case. “When I was little, my dad used to sneak into my room wearing this scary werewolf mask to be funny. Kinda traumatized me.”

“That’s a good one. What else?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m afraid of snakes….” I trail off as I glance at the rain moving down the walls, their paths reminding me of little snakes slithering down the sidewalk every time I run to my car.

“Why?”

Why? “Because they’re slimy and creepy. Anytime I see one it literally always chases me. They are legless demons that have it out for me.”

“They’re not all slimy or creepy. Some of them are pretty damn sweet... and, well, if a snake is chasing you, you clearly don’t run fast enough to get away from it.” He nudges the back of my thigh with his knee. “Don’t knock it till you try it. Snakes are very warm and cuddleable—they’ll keep you nice and warm during the cold nights.”

Swift as a snake himself, he wraps his arm tightly around me, squeezing until I squeak.

“Just imagine getting into bed with one, letting it crawl up your sheets and wrap around you like a blanket.” He hisses right in my ear as he constricts tighter, and I dissolve into horrified laughter, squeezing my legs at the thought of scales touching my foot and smacking at his python arm.

“Please don’t!” I whisper-exclaim, laughing. I try to force my arm out from between his and my chest, but it goes nowhere.

“Please don’t? That makes me want to keep you here even more.”

I give his shin a little vengeful kick with my heel. “If you don’t let me go you’re going to be waking up in bed with a pile of stickers.”

He gasps. “No! Not the stickers... please, anything but stickers.”

Finally he loosens his grip on me, though his hand slides back to my waist. Our breathing falls in sync, the speakers from the vinyl officially turning to a buzz until we’re swallowed in near-total silence.

Only our breathing and the rain.

“You know,” Noah begins, his tone thoughtful, “I’ve always been told that snakes are a sign of transformation, a change in your life.”

“And I was always told that snakes represent fear.”

He makes a contemplative little “hmm” sound, his knuckles now trailing lightly up and down my spine. “Maybe both can be true. Facing our fears leads to growth, right?”

I chew on the corner of my cheek. Transform the fear . This guy may be smarter than he lets on.

“What is it about storms then? I think they’re fascinating, like how they create all these beautiful lights all over the sky.” He reaches the hair at my back, slowly entwining the end strands around his finger. “There’s also something relaxing about storms. The way they lash at you and then calm everything down.”

A tiny spark ignites somewhere deep in my being as his words swirl around my mind. Secret, deep meanings lurk there, I know it, but they dart away like lightning bugs whenever I reach for them. The way Noah describes it almost makes it sound beautiful and refreshing.

Huh . Dad would’ve liked his mentality.

The distant sound of thunder reaches my ears again, but its rumble sounds way less ominous now as the rain trickles from the clouds. There’s still occasional lightning flashes, lighting up the room in blue before it fades out again as the storm begins to pass.

“You want to know why I am afraid of storms?” I ask slowly, feeling dizzy from being alone in the dark with him.

He uses a single finger to sweep all of my hair back. “I’ll take any opportunity to learn about you.”

The sparks it shoots throughout my limbs when he starts to run his fingers through my hair makes my body almost hum like an actual kitten. I’m positive he can hear my heart beating against my back now. I feel it pounding so hard, a thunderstorm all its own.

“I’m afraid of storms because of what happened with my dad.” Voicing it out loud immediately feels as cleansing as cutting open a wound to release all the poison.

Oh god. What am I doing getting into this? Is he even going to care, or is he pretending to try to get closer to me? I'm not sure I can make myself believe that last one. He seems way too attentive and genuine judging off his tone of voice and the way he holds me. Something that both unnerves me, but also helps me summon up my courage.

I continue slowly, figuring out how I want to tell him about a memory so hard to forget. “Okay, my dad was this total weather nerd. He’d always stay up really late, sit in his huge recliner in the living room, the blinds open, and watch the storms outside. I think he wanted to be a storm chaser when he was younger, because he was so obsessed with how it all worked. I remember this one time—fuck, I was so little—he showed me lightning for the first time. The flash lit up the whole room for a split second. He taught me that thing about how sound travels and we would count together after each thunder...” I halt, waiting for Noah to try to stop me or change the subject.

Does he think I’m a ridiculous, rambling mess getting all emotional about Dad? That’s what usually happens when I word-vomit about personal shit. Harley always shut me down when I talked about him, like having feelings was a fatal flaw and I’d shatter anytime I showed the barest hint of sadness. I knew it made him uncomfortable to talk about it, so I never did.

All I feel is Noah’s touch cradling my waist, his thumb tracing circles on my hip that lets me know I’m perfectly safe with him.

I take a deep breath and wiggle further into him until his throat curves my head, curling my blanket tighter to my chest. “I was thirteen when it happened,” I mumble into the fabric. “There was this huge, nasty storm going on outside and I swear I can still hear the wind howling, branches scratching at the windows, the house creaking from the pressure of the rain. He was watching it out of the window as he usually did.”

“And then?” Noah whispers so sweetly, which has me rolling over onto my back and folding my hands across my stomach. I want to see his eyes as I tell him. I want to feel that connection.

“So, Dad always came into my room every night to say goodnight, like clockwork, and I started getting really annoyed like the impatient little shit that I am while I waited up for him. Mostly because I had a book hidden under my pillow and I was dying to read it.” I quickly laugh over 13 year old me. “But after an hour, I got so tired of waiting and I’m like, screw this, and decided to get up and go see what he was doing.”

Noah slips his hand under the blankets seeking mine. He laces our fingers together across my stomach and squeezes as I continue with the story.

“I remember seeing the light of the lightning flash through my window, and when I went to open the door, it was locked shut.” My throat starts to clog at the memory of that night. Noah brushes his thumb over one of my knuckles. “I started banging my fist against the door, shouting and trying to get someone’s attention.” I swallow hard. “Whenever my mom finally opened the door, I could tell something was wrong by the way she looked at me and…”

“How did she look?”

“She looked—” I begin, my mother’s face as unforgettable as the day my dad caught me in the backyard. “Like she pitied me.”

I stare up at Noah and take a long, slow breath, his fingers squeezing around mine. “Her eyes were so heavy, mouth turned down. She reached out but stopped short of touching me like I was some wounded animal she was afraid of startling.” My words come faster now, and I close my eyes to keep my emotions contained. “It was that pause, that hesitation, that told me my whole world was about to implode. Like she was poised to deliver a crushing blow that was going to destroy everything I had ever known. The storm was louder when she looked at me like that. The lightning seemed brighter. It was such a raw look, and it... it changed something in me forever.”

From that night on, I hated when people looked at me like that. I'm not some fragile little thing that would be decimated from the slightest push.

Everyone at school tiptoed around me for weeks. Classmates who never used to talk to me would come up to me with exaggerated concern, voices dripping with that saccharine pity. Teachers constantly asked if I was alright, as if they expected me to burst into tears any second.

Their ostentatious sympathy only made the grief feel sharper. I didn’t want to be treated like a victim, swaddled in Bubble Wrap. I wanted normalcy, distraction, anything to take my mind off the newly empty part of my life. What I really wanted was someone who could empathize with my pain, not amplify it. Someone who could understand the storm of anger and loneliness raging inside me.

“That look of pity? It was the last thing I saw before my life fell apart. It was the last sober look I ever got from my mom, too. That's why I hate it so much when people look at me that way now. It's like... like a warning sign that everything's about to go to shit again.” I blink back the swell of tears, returning to the present. Crying is not on the agenda tonight.

I clear my throat. “Anyways, I pushed past Mom and ran up to find Dad in the living room, but when I got there I noticed he—” My chin trembles and I roll back over, facing away from Noah but taking his hand with me. This is the part I always hate, when people look at me that way and I don’t want to see it from him.

Pity .

“Take your time. Take as long as you need,” Noah whispers, his thumb running up and down my thumbnail.

My nerves are beating in my palm, my lungs burning as I take a deep breath to calm my body.

“My dad. He was...” The pressure in my eyes build and soon enough my nose will run. I can’t remember why I’m telling Noah all this in the first place, but it’s easier not facing him. “He was slumped over in his chair, eyes open. I kept shaking him, calling his name like an idiot. He was cold and I didn’t get it, you know? I just kept saying ‘I can’t hear you, Dad’ over and over until Mom dragged me away and locked my back in my room.”

“What happened?” Noah asks, squeezing me.

“Massive heart attack, the doctors said. Nothing could be done apparently. Just… poof. Gone.” A tear slips down my cheek and I let go of his hand, wiping at it before it can drip onto my pillow.

Noah moves his chest up against me, clearing his throat that sends a vibration under my skin, and rubs at my arm tucked against me. “I’m so sorry.” His words come out like tiny whispers. “I had no idea.”

A heavy silence falls, like so many others when I talk about my dad. People tiptoeing verbally, afraid to break me.

But then Noah says, “God, I’m an insensitive ass. Here I am going on about stickers while you’ve gone through something so awful.” A surprised watery laughter puffs out of me as he continues, “Remind me to never play getting to know you games again. Clearly I suck at reading the room. I’m sorry I brought this up.”

His relaxed humor is such a welcome change after the usual oppressive pity. It makes me feel something in my body that I can’t name yet.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, and, for once, mean it fully. “I guess that’s why storms freak me out. It reminds me of the night, like something bad is going to happen.”

“That makes complete sense. That’s a heavy thing to deal with and it must be so hard to revisit those memories.” His fingers slide over the back of my hand and interlace with mine again. “You amaze me, Roxanne. The strength you’ve got? It’s fucking incredible.”

I bury my smile into my pillow, going damn near boneless in this bed. It's been forever since I didn't feel so delicate or broken in someone’s eyes after confessing this old pain.

“Thank you,” I mumble eventually. “You’re the first one to actually listen… to ask. I never really talked about what happened in such great detail before.”

His thumb gently swipes across my hand. “It’s okay to trust me.”

God . Those words stir up the moths in my belly again. I can’t remember the last time anyone has genuinely offered to listen and be present with me, let alone ask me real questions. Without either recoiling or smothering?

I turn back over to face him, holding our connected hands between us. “I don’t like being vulnerable,” I admit quietly. “Especially in front of you.”

His breath warms the tip of my nose. “Why not in front of me?”

“I’ve always hated being an open book for anyone. It makes me feel naked. I know it sounds weird, since I tend to say the first thing that comes into my head and can’t shut up about my favorite cereal or music or books. Surface shit is fine. But my fears? My struggles? The things that make me hurt? That’s different. I don’t want anyone to know those.”

“No, I get it.” He exhales noisily, thumb sweeping over my knuckles again. “I don’t like it either. I don’t like being hurt, being sad... I don’t like showing that to people. I don’t want people to know these things about me. And I wouldn’t trust them with this information either. But—”

He licks his lips, eyes casting down to our hands bunched under the blanket.

“But you’re different.”

My heart does that little lub dub again.

“How am I different?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s because I know you expect the worst from me already,” he snorts. “So, I can be myself with you. I’m not Noah Jackson. I’m just me. No matter what I think. No matter what I hide, and that scares me more than anything.”

Lub dub.

“When you’re ready, you don’t have to be scared,” I whisper. “Not with me.”

There’s a tightness in his jaw, that vein in his neck starting to stick out, and dark shadows in his eyes that turn them into the bottom of the ocean. There are hidden depths here, raging waters beneath that calm surface.

I have to know more about him. I want to know more about him.

“What if I told you something scary? Something dark? Something no one ever expects of me and even something that makes me ashamed of myself?” His mouth twists sour, eyes cutting through the air to watch me. “Would you really be okay with whatever I told you?”

I keep hold of his deep blues. “Tell me.”

His jaw works, and I half-expect him to crack some joke, to flee behind his mask again. But then he takes a deep breath, eyes clouded in pain.

And he finally speaks.

“My stepdad is quite a dick. He used to swipe a belt across my body when I was younger, but now he’s leveled up to his hands if the moment hits him. I’ve never once stood up to him about it either, I just bottle it away and hope he gets what’s coming to him.” He gives a brittle laugh. “Tonight he hit my mom too. I know it's not the first time he's done that, but it was my first time I've seen it and tried to stop it, but she wouldn’t let me.”

Noah sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, it isn’t something I have ever talked about. I just hate that son of a bitch.”

The pain in his voice breaks me and I’m unable to hold back what I’m sure is horror spreading across my face. Never in a million years would I have expected that to come from his mouth, until his words from last month ring in my head.

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows in my world either.

“Oh my god, Noah.” I grasp for words, squeezing his fingers between mine. “I’m sorry… I didn’t know.”

“No one really knows.”

He turns his head towards the rain-streaked window, and acting on pure instinct, I drop his hand to wrap my arm around his shoulder and pull him against me. My thumb strokes his back as he clings back just as desperately. We’ve been the same kind of tired this whole time.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper into his hair. I can see past all of it right now. All the girls, all that attitude—it’s armor, isn’t it? Protecting the exhausted boy wanting the security he never gets at home. “That’s... that’s beyond messed up. You don’t deserve that shit. No one does.”

“It’s okay,” he mumbles into my neck, tucking closer. His hand on my back grips me tighter as if I’m the only solid thing left and I can protect him from the world.

For tonight, I know I can.

My fingers skip up his spine, tracing nonsense patterns with fingertips and nails, or move up to the nape of his neck and tangle my fingers in his soft curls. I wait as long as he needs me to, until his breathing starts to smooth out like the Bell Pond’s water settling after a storm.

Maybe we both found a secret place to weather out our private storms together from now on.

“Are you tired?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

“I’m tired,” he whispers. “I’m so fucking tired.”

My chest tightens as soon as he says it.

“I think I have something that will help cheer you up.” I keep cradling the back of his head, watching the raindrops chase each other down the glass. “Will you trust me and close your eyes?”

Noah nods almost imperceptibly before letting his head fall back on my pillow, eyes drifting shut. Dark lashes fan across his cheeks, casting spiky shadows in the muted light. Even wrecked as he is now, he still takes my breath away.

Gently both of my hands cup over his ears, blocking out any external sounds. “Focus on your heart and listen for your heartbeat. Think about all the things that make it beat faster. All of the things that make you happy.”

I do it with him, my own eyes slipping shut. The rain pinging on the roof fades away as I tune my senses only to our twin heartbeats pulsing faster now. In my head, I imagine them syncing up, the rain blending in with the hollow sound my palms give him, harmony chasing away his pain. My cupped palms amplify each pulsing thump like a little heartbeat speaker.

“Your heart beats to its own song, doesn’t it? Can you feel it? It’s quickening, but it’s a happy rhythm.” I keep my voice low, lulling. “Just listen and hear how it sounds when you’re content. You fade into the background, and the world fades away too.”

His pained breaths slow under my hands, and the muscles in his jaw start to smooth out as he floats deeper into this new calm we’ve created together. Not letting myself overthink it, I lean in, lips finding his temple. I breathe him in, pouring wordless affection into that gentle kiss, letting my exhale soothe him further.

“Breathe,” I whisper faintly. My thumbs rub at the hair above his ear while he relaxes into peace. And in our shelter from the storm, we heal.

We float in silence until Noah’s pulse taps steady and strong against my palm. I shift closer, lips grazing his ear. “You can open your eyes now.” Once his lashes flutter up, I add, “And listen, you know that I hate Noah Jackson.” I see his cheek lift slightly at that. “But I’m starting to like Noah from the window.”

His blue eyes are bubbly and warm as I lean back, finally untroubled.

“I think I prefer Noah in the garage more, to be honest,” he murmurs.

I snort. “You really think you’re funnier than you are, don’t you?”

“I know I’m funny.” He reaches up, grabbing my wrists and lowering my palms from his ears.

“If you get too scared you can always call me. I don’t want you to feel alone during thunderstorms.” His thumbs start to caress the insides of my wrists as he puffs out his chest gallantly, back to being a dickhead. “Maybe I can be your designated thunder buddy.”

“Pretty sure you’re already my thunder buddy,” I mutter and retreat to my side of the bed, taking my wrists with me.

Instant regret. My brain's on fire filling up again with all those feelings I never thought I would feel. With him .

Every cell in my body screams for him to close that inch separating us. For him to make the moves he’s so well known for and bring us close.

It’s hard to deactivate that part of myself as he maintains that damn sliver, searching my face like he’s waiting for my signal. My lips part soundlessly, paralyzed. Do I? Don't I?

When I think I might explode from the tension, he asks, “Wanna make a bet?” as casually as discussing the weather.

I get mental whiplash from the swerve in mood.

“... On what?”

But I don't care about bets right now. All I have is this dream zone that I'm in and Noah's presence seems to be the only thing keeping me awake. Especially when his mouth does that thing where it ticks up and my heartbeat kick up 80,000 more notches.

“I’ll cover myself in stickers if you touch a snake.”

I make a face, nose scrunching. “Why… is that even a bet? Why would I do that?”

Noah flashes teeth and shrugs. “You have a fear of snakes, don’t you?”

“A few stickers is nothing compared to the fear you feel when you see one of those slippery demons.”

“Well…” He rolls to face me, propping himself up on an elbow. “I’ll purify myself and take a dip in the Bell Pond if you do it.”

I only have to think for a moment before I turn to him. “Okay, now I’m interested.” I hold out my hand for him to shake. “You’re on. But you gotta hold the snake, only then I’ll touch it.”

“Deal,” he grins widely, shaking my hand and sealing the deal. “Now, for the fun part. Where can we find a good slimy snake?”

“My yard is overflowing with snakes so I’m pretty sure you can take your slimy pick.”

“Fantastic,” he says. “You know I will take the biggest one. You sure you can handle that?”

I lift my chin, ignoring the tiny space between us. “And if I can’t?”

He leans in, breath fanning my lips. “Then you’ll be in my bed by the end of the night.” My lub dub ‘s turn into fevered palpitations at the images that he’s suggesting until he tacks on slowly, “For the best tattoo of your life.”

I somehow unstick my dry throat. “Deal.”

And just like that, the clouds outside and in seem to part.

I can face this. Totally. Probably .