Chapter Five | The Pull
I’d only ever felt him this close once before.
The last time I really saw him—really saw him—I was sitting in the open trunk of my car, legs swinging off the edge, and he was standing between them. The memory isn’t crystal clear. Not in the way you remember facts. It lives somewhere deeper—cellular. A feeling stuck in my body like muscle memory. I don’t even know how I got there that day, but I was there. And so was he.
My legs were wrapped around his waist. His hands were holding me, steadying me like I might float away. My arms around his shoulders, tight. I remember the way my hand cupped the back of his neck, my thumb tracing the base of his hairline—like my touch could say all the things my mouth never could.
That’s all I ever wanted. Just that. To physically show him what he meant to me. Something I always suspected he hadn’t had much of in his life—at least, not like this. And maybe he didn't want it, which is why I always tried to hold back. It was the same as now...
I pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, my fingers slipping into his hair. The words came out with a half-laugh caught in my throat:
“You’re such an idiot,” I said, smiling.
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Why am I an idiot?”
I didn’t answer. Just smiled harder, trying to hide the fact that I was already falling.
He knew I was his in that moment. Not because I said it. Not even because I smiled. But because of how close I walked next to him—how cautiously my shoulder brushed his. Like I was afraid that if I got too close, I’d fall in completely. And still, I kept inching closer.
The way I smiled told him everything. I was glowing in disbelief.
This can’t be real, I thought. There’s no way.
So I ignored his question. Let it hang in the air between us as we stepped out of the airport and into the soft, gray light of late afternoon. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. The kind of silence that buzzed with anticipation. We both felt it—that fragile thread between friendship and whatever this almost was. The card we’d been playing—just friends—was starting to catch fire at the edges. And we both knew it.
He nudged me playfully with his elbow. I nudged him back, but my mind was already racing.
Where is this going?
He knew I’d never cross the line. Not first. I’d honor the boundaries we drew around each other a long time ago. Which meant it had to be him. He had to make it safe. I told him my truth while he safely tucked his away.
We reached my car. I popped the back hatch so he could toss his luggage in.
And then—out of nowhere—he pulled me into a hug.
I froze.
This wasn’t like him. He didn’t do hugs. He didn’t know how to give them, didn’t know how to receive them. Touch, for him, had always been casual. Platonic. Functional. But this—this wasn’t that.
This was something else.
He wrapped his arms around me like I was something precious. Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to hold me, but was doing it anyway. He held me like he meant it. Like he felt something and just couldn’t say it out loud.
I was startled by it. I’d learned not to trust touch. For me, it had always been a transaction. A prelude. An exchange with an expiration date. But this? I wanted this to mean something. I needed it to.
I gripped the back of his shirt, resting my head gently against his chest. I could hear his heartbeat—fast, uncertain. And even though he’d never admit it, I knew—he was nervous too.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe this wasn’t just in my head. Maybe the invisible string between us was real. And maybe, just maybe, he felt it too.
We let go too soon, both pretending we hadn’t lingered in it. I wiped at my face discreetly and walked around to the driver’s side. He climbed into the passenger seat without a word. I swallowed hard and smiled like it was all a joke.
“Where to, sir?” I asked, slipping into that voice I used when I pretended to be his Uber driver. Pretending I wasn’t still shaking a little from that hug.
“Dude, I’m hungry,” he groaned in that dramatic, half-dead voice he always used when he wanted sympathy. "They don't feed you shit anymore on the airplane." Ah, the typical annoyed Sam. My favorite.
I smirked. “Perfect. So… Target run?”
He gave me that look. The crooked smirk. The one that said, You’re ridiculous, and I like it.
“Get the fuck outta here. No. Food, woman.”
"I mean, I can give you something to eat." Our playful banter was far past than just platonic friends. It was always exciting, slightly erotic. Testing boundaries and each other's comfort zones.
The enticement lingered on his face.
I didn’t need to impress him. That was the best part. So I picked a little burger joint I knew he’d never choose on his own. The food was average, the seating kind of terrible—but it had charm. He didn’t complain. Didn’t praise it either. But he ate like he meant it.
I watched him across the table, chin in hand, stealing glances like I wasn’t sure if this version of him was real. He didn’t notice—or maybe he did and pretended not to. That was his way.
Back in the car, the banter returned.
“So… now where to, sir?” I asked, still in character.
He looked over at me, mock serious. “The hotel,” he said—but it didn’t land like a decision. It landed like a question. Like he didn’t really want to go. Like he was waiting for me to say something different.
I raised an eyebrow and turned toward the exit.
“I expect a big tip,” I said, keeping it light even though my stomach twisted.
The truth was sitting in the space between us like a held breath.
We had lives. Separate, tangled lives. Boundaries, people, routines, responsibilities. But in that moment, none of it mattered. Not in the car. Not in the quiet between us.
And yet, the most overwhelming thing wasn’t what had happened.
It was what hadn’t.
What do we do now?
What can we do?
Because that hug said everything we were both too afraid to say.
And neither of us was brave enough to answer it.
Not yet.
Chapter Six | Quiet Moments (His Perspective)
