Page 7 of Soft Flannel Hank

Esther bit the left side of her bottom lip. “I’m hoping to put down some roots.”

Hank nodded.

“Why do you ask?” She’d meant to sound flirty, but had sounded sharp instead.

“I—” He stopped. Swallowed. Continued to rub his hands slowly up and down his thighs.“I just wondered if you’d be around, is all.”

Esther could imagine how the worn denim felt against his palms, how it would feel againstherpalms. She bet those jeans were half a decade old. He’d gotten them worn in just the way he liked. The material looked soft in the flickering, yellow light of the motel.

“Maybe. I don’t know yet.” Because what could she tell him of the truth? She was a thirty-four-year-old witch with greasy hair in a men’s hoodie staying in an ancient motel on the Olympic Peninsula because to escape Savannah, to escape everything that threatened to follow her, she needed to go as far away as possible without crossing an ocean. Whatever she told him would just send him running.

“Well,” she said after Hank remained silent, “I’ll get out of your hair. My grandma always said one should never overstay their welcome.”

He turned to look at her, this shipwrecked man with dark eyes.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said, his voice quiet, as if he didn’t trust it.

Esther unbuckled her seatbelt. “Thanks for the ride, Hank. I really appreciate it,” she said, leaning across the console to kiss him on the cheek. It felt natural. Southern. As familiar as her skin. Her grandma always kissed people on the cheek to thank them, to say hello, to say goodbye.

Esther’s lips brushed against the beard on his cheek. She started to move away when he turned his head, his nose touching hers, their mouths so close that she felt his exhale against her chin. Hank’s eyes were closed, his face pained. He wanted to kiss her, Esther had never been so certain of anything in her life, but he clearly didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust her, maybe. Didn’t trust her to trust him.

But she could tell he wanted it. And after months of running, months of being alone with nothing but her cards and her thoughts and the American landscape to keep her company, Esther wanted it too. After nights so lonely she cried herself to sleep and days so long that she swore time had stopped just to spite her, she wanted to feel the warmth of another person mingling with her own, that exchange of heat, of breath, of energy, of intention. Even if just for a moment.

So with a deep breath, she closed the hair’s breadth of distance and pressed her lips to his.

* * *

Hank froze.In that brief moment when Esther’s soft lips pressed against his, he wondered if the human body could shatter under tension. He felt like it could, felt like his was absolutely destined to. His muscles ached with that tension, every single cell engaged with the effort to not wrap himself around her and hold on for dear life.

And she’d only just barely kissed him.

Goddamn, man. Get a grip.

His hands clenched into fists against his thighs as Esther leaned a little over the center console, pressing closer into that kiss. Her lips were soft and warm, and she tasted like coffee and cobbler. His nose rested against her cheek, and he could smell her skin, clean like rain with something else. Coconut, maybe?

Was he supposed to close his eyes? Was he supposed to keep his eyes open? How long had it been since he kissed someone for the first time?

Should he grab her? Should he hold her? Touch her face? Hold her hand? No, that last one wasn’t right. He should at least close his goddamn eyes though, right? What if she opened hers and saw him staring at her like some kind of goddamn—

Esther’s eyes opened softly, and she wrenched away from him, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Oh, fuck, Hank. I’m sorry. I just… I thought, I—” she stammered. “I shouldn’t have done that. Fuck, I ruin every single good thing and… I’m just gonna go. I’m so sorry Hank. Shit, I’m—thanks for the ride.”

Esther fumbled with the door handle. It stuck when the weather was damp, which meant that it stuck almost constantly.

“Oh my god,” she whined. “Could this be any more embarrassing? Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

“Esther.”

Either she didn’t hear him or she was beyond listening. He willed his rusty voice to work. “Esther!” he barked.

She whipped around in her seat to face him, her backpack clutched in her hands. Like a deer in headlights, she stared at him, panting, her sweatshirt hood still pulled up over her head, tears shining in her eyes.

He reached his arm towards her, as he brushed his thumb over the plush jut of her bottom lip. She inhaled quickly as he did it again, her eyes never leaving his.

He hated how rough his hands were, hated how she probably felt every single callous across her soft cheek as he delved his hand into the hood of her sweatshirt to wrap his fingers behind her neck, his thumb in front of her ear as he felt the heel of his palm against her cheek. It felt familiar to hold a person like this, even if it felt like a memory from another lifetime.

“Esther,” he whispered, frozen again. As if his body had dug down deep in the well of his courage and tapped it dry to get him that far.