Chapter Four: Too Close
721 Words
Jimmy started coming home earlier.
I noticed it the third night in a row—his car pulling into the driveway before sunset, the sound of the door closing echoing through the house while I was still awake. It felt deliberate. Like he was adjusting his life around mine.
That thought both thrilled and terrified me.
I was in the kitchen when he walked in, loosening his tie, eyes immediately finding me like they always did. His gaze flicked to the knife in my hand as I chopped vegetables.
“You’ll hurt yourself,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
He stepped closer anyway, reaching past me to turn the cutting board slightly, his hand brushing mine. The contact was brief—barely there—but my breath caught as if he’d touched fire.
He froze.
Slowly, he pulled his hand away.
“Dinner?” he asked, voice rough.
“If you want.”
“I do.”
We ate in near silence. Not uncomfortable—just heavy. Loaded. Every clink of silverware felt too loud. Every glance lingered too long.
“You went out again today,” he said casually.
It wasn’t casual at all.
“Yes,” I replied. “The bookstore.”
Alone.
“I had someone follow you.”
My fork paused midair. “You had someone watch me?”
“To make sure you were safe.”
I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “You’re not my jailer.”
His eyes darkened. “No. I’m worse.”
That night, a storm rolled in—thunder rattling the windows, rain pounding the roof. I hated storms. Always had.
I didn’t realize how much until I was standing outside his door.
I knocked once.
It opened almost immediately.
“Sofia?” His voice softened when he saw my face. “What’s wrong?”
“I—” My pride tried to stop me. It failed. “Can I sit with you for a bit?”
He hesitated, conflict flashing across his features. Then he stepped aside.
“Sit. Not sleep.”
“I know.”
We sat on opposite ends of the couch, the storm roaring outside. Each thunderclap made me flinch. Without thinking, I leaned closer.
Jimmy went still.
His arm hovered, unsure, then slowly wrapped around my shoulders—protective, careful. Not possessive. Not yet.
I rested my head against his chest.
Neither of us spoke.
Neither of us moved away.
And that was the moment I knew—
This wasn’t just tension anymore.
It was attachment.
Or someone.
“Jimmy,” I said softly.
He stopped mid-punch.
For a long moment, he didn’t turn around.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I live here.”
He finally faced me. His eyes were dark, stormy—full of something he was barely holding together.
“Last night shouldn’t have happened.”
“I was scared.”
“And I shouldn’t have let you lean on me.”
The words hurt more than I expected. “Did it mean nothing to you?”
He stepped closer, stopping just short of touching me. “It meant too much.”
My breath hitched.
“You don’t look at me like a daughter,” I whispered.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t say that.”
“Then tell me what you feel.”
Silence.
Painful. Loud.
“I feel responsible,” he said finally. “I feel angry when other men look at you. I feel the urge to keep you close when I shouldn’t.”
He exhaled sharply. “And that’s where it ends.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because of her?”
“Yes,” he said instantly. “Because of your mother. Because I promised myself I’d never cross that line.”
“What if the line already moved?” I asked.
His hand lifted, stopping inches from my face. His fingers trembled.
“If I touch you,” he said quietly, “I won’t stop.”
The confession shattered something inside me.
He dropped his hand like it burned him and stepped back. “Stay away from me for a while.”
I nodded, even though it hurt.
That night, I cried quietly into my pillow.
And down the hall, I knew—
Jimmy didn’t sleep at all.
- Writer
