HOVERING
1484 Words
NOLA
Rhett’s house smells the same.
Wood. Leather. Something darker beneath it, something warm and dangerous that curls low in my stomach the moment I step inside. It shouldn’t feel familiar after three years, but it does. Too much.
The door locks behind us with a solid click.
My spine straightens.
I don’t know why that sound makes my heart beat faster.
Rhett clears his throat. “You’ll take the guest room.”
Of course I will.
I nod like a good girl, like the last time I wasn’t spread on his couch begging him to ruin me.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he adds. “You can shower. I’ll make something warm.”
I watch him walk away, broad back tense, shoulders stiff like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
I nonchalantly drop my bag by the guest room door and lean against the wall, breathing slowly.
This is temporary.
This is about safety.
This is not about us.
I repeat it like a mantra.
The shower helps. Hot water pounds against my skin, washing off dried tears and sticky sweat, but it also leaves me soft, too aware. When I step out wrapped in one of Rhett’s towels, my skin tingles like it knows I’m in enemy territory.
*
We go to see dad the next morning.
The hospital feels colder than it did yesterday.
The machines hum steadily, filling the silence Dad refuses to break. He looks the same. Pale. Still. Like time stopped for him and forgot to restart.
I sit beside him, my fingers wrapped around his hand. His skin feels cool, papery, nothing like the warmth I remember.
I talk anyway.
I tell him about work, about New York, about how I hate how quiet Willow Creek feels now. I don’t mention Rhett, even though I can feel him behind me, his presence steady and unmoving.
When a nurse adjusts one of the monitors, Rhett steps closer without thinking. His hand lifts, hovering just behind my back, close enough that I feel heat but not contact.
Protective.
I shift away before I can stop myself.
His hand drops.
The silence between us grows heavy.
On the drive back, I watch the woods blur past the window. Rhett’s hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his eyes constantly flicking to the tree line, the mirrors, the road ahead.
“Do you always drive like this?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re expecting something to jump out.”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Final.
It annoys me more than it should.
That night, I hear it again.
A sound from the woods. Low. Rumbling. Close enough to make my skin prickle.
Before panic can fully bloom, my door opens.
Rhett stands there, his expression sharp.
“Stay inside,” he orders.
“What was that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
I cross my arms, the fabric of my shirt bunching under my hands. “You keep saying that.”
His gaze locks onto mine, intense enough to make my pulse stumble. “And you keep pushing.”
“Maybe because you keep lying.”
The air between us tightens, stretched thin, humming with something neither of us names.
“Get some sleep, Nola,” he says, turning away.
I watch him leave, anger curling in my chest, tangled with something far more dangerous.
*
I convince Rhett to go with him to the grocery store. I can’t just rot inside, despite the danger. The place smells like citrus leather and cold metal.
It’s the kind of place that hasn’t changed in decades, shelves stacked too close together, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. I push the cart slowly, my fingers wrapped tight around the handle, the plastic cool and slightly sticky beneath my palms.
Rhett walks beside me.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Everything about the way he moves is deliberate. His long strides shorten to match mine, his broad shoulders angled subtly toward me as if his body has decided, without consulting his mind, that I am something that needs guarding.
I hate that I notice.
I reach for a box of cereal just as his hand shoots out, steadying the shelf when it wobbles.
Our fingers don’t touch. They hover an inch apart.
Heat blooms anyway.
I pull my hand back first, my heart beating harder than it should. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Do what?” he asks.
“Watch me like I might shatter.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
He doesn’t argue. He just exhales slowly through his nose, the sound controlled, restrained, like he’s holding something back.
We move down the aisle in silence after that.
When I bend to grab pasta from the lower shelf, I feel it again, that awareness, sharp and electric, like a thread pulled tight between us. I straighten too fast and nearly collide with him.
He catches the cart before it hits my hip.
“Careful,” he mutters.
I glare up at him. “I’m not fragile.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His eyes flicker down to my mouth before snapping back up, as if the movement surprised even him.
We finish shopping without another word, but when we walk back to the truck, he positions himself on the outside of the sidewalk, closer to the road. When a stranger brushes too near, Rhett subtly steps closer, not touching me, just close enough that I feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of my sweater.
I don’t thank him.
I don’t move away either.
Back at the house, the air feels different.
Thicker.
Like the walls themselves are aware that two people who should not want each other are trapped inside them.
I unload the groceries while Rhett puts things away. We move around each other with careful precision, never colliding, never brushing , and yet every near miss makes my skin buzz.
“You don’t have to stay here all day,” I say eventually, breaking the silence. “I can handle being alone.”
He doesn’t look at me as he answers. “You won’t be.”
“That’s not your decision.”
“It is if it concerns your safety.”
I scoff. “You keep saying that like it explains everything.”
He finally turns to face me, his expression hard but controlled. “You want explanations?”
“Yes.”
“No, you want control,” he says evenly. “And I won’t give you that if it puts you at risk.”
I step closer before I can stop myself. “You don’t get to decide what risks I take.”
The kitchen feels smaller now. The hum of the refrigerator louder. My pulse thunders in my ears.
Rhett’s gaze drops briefly to my clenched fists, then lifts back to my face. “You’re angry.”
“Obviously.”
“Not about this.”
I laugh, sharp and humorless. “You don’t know anything about what I’m feeling.”
“I know you,” he says quietly.
Something in his tone makes my chest ache.
“You don’t,” I whisper. “You knew a version of me. One you could dismiss.”
The words land between us like shattered glass.
His shoulders stiffen. “That night”
“Don’t,” I snap. “Don’t explain it. I didn’t ask you to come into my life again. You did that the moment you told me to pack my things.”
His hands curl slowly into fists at his sides. “I did it to protect you.”
“And I did it because I didn’t want to feel helpless,” I shoot back. “But don’t mistake that for gratitude.”
Silence swells.
He takes a step toward me.
Then another.
He stops just short of touching me, close enough that I can smell him — soap, leather, wooden scent. My breath stutters traitorously.
His voice is low. “You think I wanted this?”
My throat tightens. “You always act like you’re the only one suffering.”
His eyes darken. “You have no idea.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
The air between us hums, stretched taut with words we refuse to say, with memories we both pretend don’t still burn.
Then he steps back.
The moment fractures.
“Stay inside tonight,” he says, all Alpha command again, the wall rebuilt. “Lock your window.”
“I’m not a child,” I reply automatically.
His gaze lingers on me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “I know.”
That’s what makes it dangerous.
Later that night, as I lie in bed listening to the house settle, I realize something unsettling.
- Writer
