Page 178 of Harbinger

Six.

Time peels off in ringing strokes. Each chime strips away a lie I want to stop telling myself.

Five.

Is he close to breaking? Is he thinking of my mouth on his skin? Or the way I shook afterward?

Because my mind keeps returning to the way his hands steadied me as I fell apart.

Four.

Light spills from the back entrance ahead of us. The door is open, the smell of wine and food seeping toward us like a friend beckoning us forward.

It would be so easy to step over the threshold together.

The door always remembers.

Three.

Tradition says to make a wish on the final bell. To touch what you want to carry into the new year.

But my hands are empty at my sides.

Two.

I try to think of a wish. But there are only thoughts of him, and that makes wishing feel too dangerous.

One.

The final bell rings out, and my breath catches as everything breaks at once. The night’s silence dissolves into cheers. Corks pop as the celebration continues.

As we approach the threshold, I slow, reaching for the door … and his fingers close around mine. My hand fits perfectly in his as if it remembers something I don’t.

He wears no gloves in the dark where his secrets are safe, and his warm skin feels like a silent vow, his grasp gentle but firm as if to remind me that he’s here.

Here without expectation.

Whatever you need.

I think that might be him.

I’ll wait for you.

He pauses, leaving space for me.

He doesn’t chase. He doesn’t have to.

I could pull away.

I should.

But I don’t.

His fingers weave through mine, and he tugs me away from the door. Away from the strangers with their prying questions and leering eyes. Away from a decision I’m terrified to make. Away from a page I can’t quite turn.

But his hand is in mine, his coat over my shoulders, his taste lingering in my mouth even days later.

And I realize that whatever I thought I left behind the other night is right here.