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Then soft.
Dangerously soft.
The quiet, steady way he sees me slips between my ribs before I can brace against it. He believes something about me I’m still not sure I deserve.
Say something.
Anything.
“Thank you.”
Brilliant, Clair. Groundbreaking. Emotionally devastating.
I wince. Years of swallowing feelings, and apparently the best I can do is two words and a facial expression that probably looks like I smell spoiled milk.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my pocket with the others. His words are starting to stack up in there. Little scraps of paper. Little pieces of proof.
“For the record, I’m also thanking you for the letters.”
His attention sharpens.
The box in my hands suddenly becomes very interesting. “I know I’m terrible at saying things without sounding like a malfunctioning greeting card, but they matter. A lot.” I make myself meet his face. “You see me in them. Not the version people made up. Not the version I got stuck being. Me.”
The air between us tightens until the dusty hardware aisle feels too small for both of us.
He writes with slow, deliberate strokes and turns the notebook.
Good. I’m not done.
My pulse stumbles. “Is that a promise or a threat?”
His mouth curves as he slips the notebook back into his pocket.
A laugh slips out. “You’re dangerous, Leon.”
He shrugs, grabs my hand, and writes across the back with his pen. His rough calluses send a tingle up my arm. Only for you.
Oh.
That’s fine.
Totally fine.
My bones are soup now, but otherwise fine.
Leon’s shoulders shake once in a silent laugh.
I swallow hard. “I’m trying.”
My voice cuts through the ruined store.
Leon’s expression changes.
I drop my gaze before it can do more damage.
“I know I’m not . . .” I tighten both hands around the box. “There yet.”
The words come slower now, careful enough to scrape.
