I gulp and nod. “Yes.”
“Yes,” I croak. “But also of myself.”
He pulls the glove off with his teeth. Bare skin now. His thumb traces along my cheekbone, over the freckles there, down to my jaw. His hand is huge and warm and rough with calluses.
I lower myself down onto the kitchen floor. The tile is cold through my shirt. I can see the underside of the table, the legs of both chairs. The ceiling light makes everything too visible. He sinks between my legs and I let them fall open and the vulnerability of it almost sends me somewhere else—that ceiling, that crack, that lone gray sock by the door—until—
“Hey. Hey. Look at me.” His hand is on my chin, turning my face toward him. “Stay here. Right here with me.”
I look at the mask and slowly, The Fear recedes. He’s not the one from before
