Close Quarters

Prologue

Present 

I look at the pile of dishes in the sink and reach a painful realization: I've got it bad.

Actually, scratch that. I already knew I had it bad. 

But if I hadn't, this would be a dead giveaway: the fact that I cannot glance at a colander and twelve dirty forks without seeing Bryson's dark eyes as he leans against the counter, arms crossed on his chest; without hearing his stern-yet-teasing voice asking me, "Postmodern installation art? Or are we just out of soap?"

It comes right on the trail of arriving home late and noticing that he left the porch light on for me. That one . . .oh, that one always makes my heart hiccup in a half-lovely,half-wrenching way. Also heart-hiccup-inducing: I remember to turn it off once I'm inside. Very unlike me, and possibly a sign that the chia seed sludge he's been making me for breakfast in the mornings when I'm late for work is actually making my brain smarter (He will never learn about that because I am never eating that shit again).

It's good that I've decided to move out. For the best. These heart hiccups are not sustainable in the long term, not for my mental or cardiovascular health. I'm only a humble beginner at this whole pining thing, but I can safely state that living with some guy you used to hate and somehow ended up slipping in love with is not a wise move. Trust me, I have a doctorate.

(In a totally unrelated field, but still plus my dad was a doctor I KNOW SHIT.)

You know what is good about the pining? The constant nervous energy. It has me looking at the pile of dishes and thinking that cleaning the kitchen could be a fun activity. When Bryson enters the room, I'm riding the unexpected urge to load the dishwasher as far as it will carry me. I glance up at him, notice the way he nearly fills the doorframe, and order my heart not to hiccup. It does it anyway—even adds a flip for good measure.

My heart's a jackass. Just like me.

"You're probably wondering if a sniper is forcing me to do the dishes at gunpoint." I beam at Bryson without really expecting him to smile back, because—Bryson. 

He's next to impossible to read, but I've long stopped trying to see his amusement, and I just let myself feel it. It's nice and warm, and I want to bathe in it. 

I want to make him shake his head, say "Chrystal" in that tone of his, and laugh against his better judgment. I want to push up on my toes, reach out to fix the dark strand of hair on his forehead and burrow into his chest to smell the clean, delicious smell of his skin. 

But I doubt he wants any of that. So I turn back to rinse a cereal bowl hiding under the colander. Man, am I good at washing up.

"I figured you were being mind-controlled by those parasitic spores we saw on that documentary." His voice is low. Rich. I will miss it so, so much.

Good Lord, I am a simp.

"Those were barnacles— See, I knew you fell asleep halfway." I laugh, He doesn't reply. Which is fine, because—Bryson.

 Aman of few smiles and even fewer words. Which makes the smiles I see just the more special.

"So, you know the neighbour's puppy? That French bulldog? He must have gotten away during a walk because I just saw him run toward me in the middle of the street. Leash hanging from his neck and all."

I reach out for a towel and my hand bumps into him. He's standing right behind me now. I MUST STAY FOCUSED.

"Oops.Sorry. Anyway, I carried him back home and he was so cute. . ."I stop. 

Because all of a sudden Bryson isn't just standing behind me. I'm being crowded against the sink, the edge of the counter pressed into my hip bones, and there's a tall wall of heat flat against my back.

Thank the lord I'm tall because if I was short he'd have snapped me like a twig by now.

Oh my God. 

Is he . . . Did he trip? He must have tripped. This is an accident. He hates me.

"Bryson?" 

"This okay, Chrystal?" he asks, but he doesn't move away. I don't want him to move away.

He stays right where he is, front pressed against my back, hands against the counter on each side of my hips, and . . .Is this some kind of lucid dream? 

Is this a heart-hiccup-generated cardiovascular event? 

Am I in another coma after blowing up a fridge? (Don't ask)

Is my brain converting my most shameful nighttime fantasies into hallucinations? 

"Bryson?" I whimper, not cause I'm weird but because he is nuzzling my hair. Right above my temple, with his nose and maybe even his mouth, and it seems deliberate. 

Very much not an accident. Is he—? 

No. No, surely not. 

But his hands spread on my belly, and that's what tips me off that this is different. 

This doesn't feel like one of those accidental brushing of arms in the hallway, the ones I've been telling myself to stop obsessing over (Which I'm still obsessing over btdubs). It doesn't feel like that time I tripped over my computer cord and almost stumbled into his lap, and it doesn't feel like him gently holding my wrist to check how badly I burned my thumb while cooking on the stove (I'm not the greatest when it comes to safety, My medical records are a doctors worst nightmare). 

This feels . . . 

"Bryson?" 

"Shh." I feel his lips at my temple, warm and reassuring."Everything's okay, Chrystal." 

Something hot and liquid begins to coil at the bottom of my belly.

I am never going to be able to forget this.....ever.