Page 60 of Shattered On Ice

I reach for the bowl of popcorn resting on the cushion between us just as he does. My fingers skim the back of his hand. It’s the barest second of contact, but it sends a shockwave of warmth up my arm. Knight jerks his hand back as if he’s been burned, his breath audibly catching in his throat over the broadcasters calling a penalty.

He doesn't look at me. He just swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as my eyes track the movement. I don't give a damn about the hockey game. The yips are long gone, completely cured, because my nervous system is locked in and fully consumed by the man sitting next to me.

I move the bowl to the coffee table as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest, fortifying that clinical boundary once again so he can retreat behind it.

The buzzer sounds. We won, but I couldn't tell you the score. Knight reaches for the remote to turn off the TV, the universal sign that this session is over, and I should leave. I lean forward and beat him to it, swiping the remote off the coffee table. Muscle memory takes over. We’ve spent hours on the couch, watching movies together, with him curled into my chest when we were hiding from the world. I don't ask if it’s okay. I just automatically switch to a streaming service and put on 10 Things I Hate About You.

Knight goes rigid as the opening credits roll. “Westin. We finished the exposure exercise. You should…” he trails off, unable to actually tell me to go home.

“I know.” My voice is low and casual as I lean back against the cushions, getting comfortable for one of my favorite movies. I toss the remote to the other side of the couch, away from him. “But the movie just started, and I know you love it when Kat backs into Joey’s car and says, ‘Whoops!’. Just one movie. I promise it will help with my trauma, Doc.”

He wavers. I watch the resolve he’d worked up fading as Ms. Perky types about a pulsating member. He looks tired. The clinical armor cracks under the weight of his own exhaustion, the comfort of his living room, and the man he loves sitting next to him. With a soft sigh that sounds suspiciously like a white flag rising, he lets his head fall back into the cushion as he uncrosses his arms and sinks deeper into the couch. The agonizing two feet of distance between us shrinks to mere inches, and his shoulder nearly brushes mine.

Halfway through the movie, Kat Stratford is standing in front of her English class, reading her poem, and Knight’s guard is beautifully, completely gone. The clinical wall he built out of psychology degrees and mahogany doesn't stand a chance against the soft flannel of his sleep pants and the worn-in cushions of the couch. We haven't spoken in an hour, but gravity and the magnetic pull between us have done their work. He’s slouched down, legs stretched out, left shoulder touching my right.

The heat radiating off his body where our sides press together is an absolute drug after not being able to touch him. I’m buzzing with it. The nervous system I’m so much more aware of now is practically humming, soaking up the casual, domestic weight of him that I’ve been starved of for so long. I’ve bared my soul to this beautiful man in his office. I’ve bled out my darkest secrets. But I haven't been allowed to hug him. I haven't been able to gently brush his soft hair out of his face or trace his dimples. I couldn't pull him into my chest when my world was falling apart.

His left hand rests on the cushion between us, palm turned down, his long, elegant fingers loosely curled.

I stare at his hand in the dim light of the television. My heart gives a heavy, slow thud against my ribs. I shouldn't do it. I know I shouldn't. Crossing that line risks him snapping back into Dr. Stephens' mode. I risk him sending me home. But I’m a desperate, greedy man, and it’s just right there.

I don't ask. I don't give him the chance to put the mask back on and slam the boundary back in place. Moving at a glacial pace. I slowly slide my upturned hand across the nubby upholstery of the cushion.

I start small, letting the side of my thumb press softly against his pinky.

The change is instant. He tenses, the gentle, even rhythm of his breath hitching, trapping the air in his lungs. I freeze, keeping my hand in place and leaving the ball in his court.

You can pull away, I tell him silently. Put the wall back up. Be the therapist. I’ll let you.

On the screen, Kat’s voice cracks as she reads the final lines of her poem. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Knight doesn't pull away. Instead, he lets out a long, ragged exhale that sounds exactly like a man giving up a fight he never actually wanted to win. Slowly, he turns his wrist. His trembling fingers slide against mine.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly painfully tight, and take the opening. I glide my palm fully against his, my larger, rough hockey hand engulfing his, lacing our fingers.

The moment our hands lock together, a shudder runs through Knight’s whole body, pressing him harder against my side. His thumb sweeps gently over my knuckles, a desperate, soothing caress before his grip tightens. He holds on to me like he’s drowning and I’m the only door in the Northern Atlantic to cling to. He’s holding my hand with the same fierce, devastating love that made him sacrifice our relationship in the first place.

I don't turn my head. I can't look at him. I know if we make eye contact, the spell will break. The guilt will catch up to him, despite running our hardest. Instead, I keep my eyes glued to the credits rolling on the TV, blinking back the sudden hot burn of tears pricking my eyes.

I’ve had a lot of physical relationships in my life. I’ve had mind-blowing hookups and passionate nights in this exact house with this man. But sitting here in the dark, perfectly still, feeling the pulse in Knight’s wrist beat against my own? It’s the most intensely intimate thing I’ve ever experienced.

He’s holding my hand. It’s the tiniest slip in his professional boundary, a microscopic fracture in the rules keeping us apart. But as his thumb strokes over my knuckles in the dark, I know the truth. It’s a total victory. I’m getting my man back.

Twenty-four

Knight

The iconic Letters To Cleo song that plays during the closing credits fills the room, the lament mirroring my own. I want you to want me. The screen shifts to stark white text scrolling, breaking the fragile, suspended reality we’ve been living in for the last two hours.

Westin’s thumb strokes across my knuckles one last time in a deliberate, lingering pressure, before he slowly untangles his hand from mine. He doesn't look guilty or even conflicted. As he leans forward to grab his boots from the floor, the lines of his broad shoulders are relaxed, entirely lacking the tension he carried in with him earlier tonight.

“Thanks for having me over, Doc,” Westin says, his voice a warm, low rumble as he laces up his boots. He stands, towering over the low sectional, and shoots me a soft, knowing look. “It was a really successful evening. I’m counting tonight as a win.”

He’s framing it clinically, but the meaning in his hazel eyes is unquestionable. He means the hockey game. He means the movie. And he means the handhold.

“It was a good night, Wes,” I say, ensuring my voice stays encouraging and even. “Your nervous system handled the exposure beautifully. Now, it’s time to process it. Get some sleep. I’ll see you soon.”

He smiles, a real, unshadowed smile that makes my chest ache, and heads for the door. “Sleep well, Knight.”