Page 40 of Ice Cold Chemistry
He pushes off the doorframe and walks toward me, his movements stiff and deliberate. Like he’s thinking about every step. Like proximity is a math problem he’s trying to solve.
He stops about two feet away. Still too far for a couple.
“Closer than that,” I say gently.
He takes another step. Now we’re about a foot apart. I can smell his soap—something clean and woodsy. I can see the rise and fall of his chest.
“Hi,” I say stupidly.
“Hi.”
“This is weird.”
“Yeah.”
I reach out and take his hand. His whole body goes rigid, like I’ve touched him with a live wire. His fingers are stiff against mine, his palm slightly clammy.
“Relax,” I murmur. “You look like you’re being held hostage.”
“I don’t…” He swallows. “I’m not good at this.”
“At holding hands?”
“At—” He stops. Starts again. “People don’t touch me. Not like this.”
The words land heavier than I expected. I think about my own life—hugging my parents goodbye, linking arms with Tori, casually touching people’s shoulders when I talk to them. Physical affection has always been easy for me. Natural. I never thought about it as something that could be hard.
“What do you mean?” I ask carefully.
His jaw works. He’s still staring at our hands, not at me. “On the ice, yeah. Hits, checks, fights. But off the ice…” He shakes his head slightly. “It’s been a long time since anyone just… touched me. To be nice.”
My chest aches. I think about what that means—years without a hug, without a hand on his shoulder, without any of the casual intimacy most people take for granted.
I squeeze his hand gently, and this time, I feel his fingers loosen slightly. Not relaxed, but less rigid. Less afraid.
“It’s just me,” I say softly. “It’s just holding hands. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Doubt, maybe.
“I know what couples do,” he says quietly. “I just don’t know how to do it. Not anymore.”
“It’s okay. Just do what comes naturally.”
He exhales slowly, and then after a second, his fingers start to relax against mine. His thumb shifts, brushing against my knuckle, and I feel the contact all the way up my arm.
“That’s better,” I manage.
We stand there, hand in hand, neither of us moving. His palm is warm and huge against mine, and his grip is firm but careful, like he’s afraid of holding on too tight.
I look up at him and find him watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Concentration? Confusion? Something else?
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
The word hangs between us. My heart does something complicated.
“We should go,” I say, breaking the spell. “Walk out together. Let people see.”
