I gulp.
Oh dear.
“It’s fine,” I say in a voice that’s weaker than I’d prefer. “It doesn’t hurt too much. I probably slept funny.”
“Mmm,” he says. His eyes trail over me. “Well, let me know if you want me to knead some of those muscles,” he says, flexing his hands. “And in the meantime—should we call this guy?”
“Do we want to call him or go visit him?” I say, glad for the distraction. I press my hands to my cheeks, trying to look casual.
“Let’s call him first,” Soren says. He steps further into the pantry and pulls the door closed behind him.
My breath catches in my throat, hitching somewhere around my clavicle and then disappearing entirely. This pantry is small, and with the two of us in here together, it feels even smaller.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s call.”
“I mean, do you think we need to go see him in person?” he says. He sounds totally normal now, which I do not appreciate. Didn’t he say he likes me? How is he completely unaffected by the two of us being shoved in this tiny space?
“Not necessarily,” I say absently, looking more closely at him. He seems to be breathing normally, and I can’t tell any difference in his skin tone. I don’t think he’s flushed or blushing.
There are a few seconds of silence, and I start when Soren breaks them.
“What are you looking at?” he says. He speaks the words quietly, low, like he’s asking me to tell him a secret.
And I don’t have it in me to be coy; that’s not who I am. I don’t play games, even of the flirtatious variety. So I ask him one question.
“Do you really want to know?”
He turns his body to face me more fully, making the pantry feel tinier than ever. The overhead light is doing incredible things for the color of his hair, and it casts long shadows over his features.
“Mm-hmm,” he says in a low rumble. “I always want to know.”
“You said you like me,” I say.
“Mmm.”
“But you seem totally fine being in here with me like this.” I tilt my head as I look up at him.
To my surprise, though, he cocks one eyebrow at me. “Do I?” he says, his mouth crooking into an amused smile.
I nod shakily, because I don’t entirely trust my speaking voice right now.
I’m waiting for him to respond, but he doesn’t—not verbally, anyway. Instead he reaches for my hand, his movements slow, measured. Then he lifts my arm, placing my hand directly against his chest, right over his heart.
“Oh.” The word slips out of me, barely a whisper, as my eyes widen. I press my palm more firmly into him as I feel it: the rapid rhythm of his heart. “It’s so fast,” I murmur. Then I look up at him, meeting his eyes. “Because of me?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “Because of you,” he says hoarsely.
“Because we’re close?”
“Yes. And—” He breaks off, clearing his throat. “And you’re pretty.”
I blink up at him, my eyes still wide, and he gives me a gentle smile.
“I’m attracted to you,” he clarifies. “I find you very attractive.”
“Right,” I say. Of course. That’s something that makes people’s hearts beat faster.
“Any more questions?” he says.
