Look at You

Chapter 50

50

I'm heavy breathing, dragging him through this crowd. I know people are likely looking at me—at us, but all I can think about is how loud my breath sounds.

I push us through the front door; my hand is on his wrist. It's warm. I may be squeezing it hard enough to snap it, with those small piano bones of his. The door to the elevator jolts open, disrupting the image I have of Simon disappearing into white dust in front of me.

We stand side by side in the elevator. As it descends to the lobby, I slide my hand down his wrist. He grabs onto my fingers and threads them through his—or do I do that? Right now, I can't say. All I know is he's squeezing me just as hard back.

As soon as the elevator dings, I head for the lobby door and don't even bother opening it for him first. Right now, I need him, and I, alone and fast.

I don't know where I'm going until I walk right past my truck. His new place—I guess somewhere inside I'm thinking logically—is just a block away. I don't think about if it's locked or furnished or where the keys are. All I can think about is being alone with him. Alone, alone, alone, alone. I think my fingers are shaking. I think my brain is shaking.

We reach the door to his apartment, and I can't even open my mouth to ask him if he has his keys. He's feeling the same primitive rush as I am though, because he pulls them out of his pocket and two-hands them into the door without a word from either of us. His breath pools in hot gusts of white air around him as he turns the key. The streetlight is somehow ethereal, shining onto his face—onto those watercolor coffee stain freckles—and it reminds me why I'm here, with him.

It nearly knocks the wind out of me. How much I love him.

He gestures me inside and follows close behind, but according to my involuntary reaction, he's taking too long. I wrap my fingers over where his are on the door and pull it closed quickly.

There's one dimly lit bulb barely illuminating the stairwell up to his apartment. It dulls the effect of the scuffed walls and the paintless steps and the stickers plastered all over the wood banister. The lingering smell of Italian seasoning and Mark's secret marinara sauce usually flood the place, but not right now. None of it matters to me right now. We could be in Central Park under the Christmas lights. We could be alone on a moonlit beach in Spain. We could be anywhere, and all I would see is him.

Our chests collide with every breath I take. I watch my fingers grip each side of his face. I know my hands must be freezing, but he doesn't flinch. He sinks into my touch; it's gentle, shaky, and holds a million questions and answers all at once.

"Cam."

His voice wounds me. He wants to say more, his lips are still parted, but he stops. He's searching what little he can see of my face in this lighting. I would be struggling too, but by now I have it memorized. The dimple on the right when he smiles. The little lines on his nose when he crinkles it deep in thought. The gentle lovely squint he's doing now—the one he saves for talking about his passions, or Callie, and now, apparently me.

"Just let me look at you," I say, because it's all I want to do.

My fingers steady themselves. More answers now than there are questions. His lips—small and pouty, are calling to me. I lean closer, letting my thumb graze his bottom one.

"Cam." He's begging. The squint is now a wide-eyed plea. My lips twitch.

"Tired of me already?" Me staring at you, obsessing over the placement of every freckle on your face?

He's breathless. "You wish." And then he's pulling me closer. And the last thing I see before he kisses me is that stupid little smirk.

And it's perfect. I physically can't exist without him now.