“You’ve got this, Emma.”
She sighed and kept moving, stopping when she couldn’t move another inch—one step from the top.
“Only one left.”
“That last step and I haven’t worked things out.”
He just waited. Patient. Calm.
“You should know, I’m going to push you down the stairs when I get to you.”
Another slurp of her shake was his only answer.
Hog hopped up onto the landing and she glared at her dog. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Simon pulled a dog cookie from his pocket.
Hog inhaled it without even chewing.
“That’s low. Coaxing my dog to the dark side. How did you know to have the smoothie and dog cookie on you?”
“Maybe I’m looking out for you.” He offered her a hand.
Stubborn to the bone, Emma shook her head. “I’ve got this.”
“Just trying to help so you don’t have to wrestle with that ten percent of you that isn’t ready to be healed.”
Oh, how she hated that he knew her so well as to be able to stomp all over her biggest fear. Hated even more how emotional it made her feel. Eyes burning, throat tight, chest aching, and worse, still sweating from the physicality of getting all the way up without dying, she ignored his proffered hand, took the last stair herself, and then . . . walked right into him and held on tight.
Simon stilled for a beat, then crouched to set down the shake and wrapped his arms around her.
“Sorry,” she whispered, but not sorry enough to let go. “I’m all sweaty.”
“I like it. It means you worked hard.”
Emma snorted past the tears threatening. “You’re a strange man.”
She felt Simon smile against her hair. “That was a hell of an accomplishment, Emma.”
Nodding, she didn’t lift her face from where she’d pressed it into the crook of his shoulder, up against warm skin. He smelled good. Like guy good. His arms were strong and firm around her, and yet somehow also warm and welcoming. And something else, making her realize why this felt like such a moment.
It was the first time anyone had held her since . . . well, since Emma 1.0. She lifted her head and looked at him.
Cupping her face, he ran his thumbs along the sleep-deprived smudges beneath her eyes, his own softened now, showing concern. “Rough day?” he asked quietly.
Later Emma would tell herself it was his voice that broke her barriers. But that was the thing about losing the people closest to you, leaving you so vulnerable. There was no one in her life to express worry about her, to check in and make sure she was okay, and while she thrived on the independence, she missed . . . connections.
Having Simon ask about her day threatened to release the tears she’d been holding back. And like the tide, they couldn’t be stopped. A tear slipped out, followed by another, each meeting his thumb. Brushing them away, he pulled her back into him, once again enfolding her in those warm, strong arms. Molding herself to him, she burrowed her face into his chest and let the tears fall.
He held her for a long time, rocking her lightly, his embrace a sweet comfort that made her heart ache even more. “I’m fine,” she finally sniffed.
“I know.”
“I just thought it’d be easier by now.”
“It will be. Proud of you, Em.”
She met his gaze. “You were watching me struggle the whole time, weren’t you?”
“You needed to know you could do it yourself.”
“I could’ve died.”
“But you didn’t.”
She narrowed her eyes.
He smiled. She was amusing him again. “If you’d fallen, I’d have been there.”
“I did fall.”
“You tripped,” he corrected. “And you caught yourself. You persevered. You did it, Emma, by yourself. Now you know you can do anything.”
She let out a low laugh. She wanted to be pissed, but . . . he’d given her back something she hadn’t even realized she was still missing—her independence. “You’re a sneaky SOB, you know that?”
Simon didn’t look bothered by this in the least. In fact, he looked . . . intensely focused. On her. That’s when Emma realized she still had her hands on him, and not in a platonic on-his-table sort of way, which sometimes happened in PT in really tough sessions. She’d clutch at him like he was her only lifeline, while also secretly thinking about wrapping her hands around his neck and squeezing. Hard.
But this . . . this was nothing like that. His mouth was only a few inches from hers, and it was a great mouth too. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and not yesterday either. Maybe even several mornings, and the scruff made her fingers itch to touch.
Emma lifted her gaze to his and found Simon’s hazel eyes swirling with things that made her swallow hard. She wanted to twine her arms around his neck and slide her hands into his silky hair. She wanted to pull his face to hers. She wanted to kiss him, and she thought maybe he wanted that too. “You stayed away from your spot on the roof all week for me, didn’t you?”
He didn’t answer, which really was his answer. He’d given up coming to his spot, the place he went to be alone and just be, so that if she made it all the way up here, she could have it.
She wasn’t sure what to make of that. “This is your place. I don’t want you to stay away because of me.”
He started to shake his head, but she cut him off. “Promise me.” She lifted her pinkie finger between them. “Pinkie promise.”
“You need it more—”
“Pinkie promise me you won’t stay out of your own space because of me, or I’ll go back to crying at every single appointment I have with you.”
“I hate it when you cry.”
Emma waggled her pinkie.
With a shake of his head, Simon hooked his pinkie in hers.
“Say it,” she said.
That got a smile out of him. “Why am I constantly surprised by you?”
“I’m easy to underestimate. Say it, Simon.”
He met her gaze with his own half-amused but half-serious gaze. “I promise not to stay away from the roof because you might be up here huffing and puffing.”
She laughed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And anyone who underestimates you is an idiot.”
Their gazes locked and held, and she found herself more breathless now than she had been on the stairs. She liked that he hadn’t pulled back. He could have no idea why this hug felt so important to her, and yet he let her have it, seeming content to hold her for as long as she wanted.
“Do you want to sit?” he asked.
“I’m not sure I can make it to the couch,” she admitted.
“Put your feet on mine.”
“I’ll hurt you—”
He lifted her off the ground a few inches and lowered her again—onto his feet. Tightening one arm around her, he grabbed the drink in his free hand and walked her backward to the couch.
If she closed her eyes, it almost felt like they were slow dancing. It was the closest she’d gotten to dancing of any kind in a year, and it felt so good she almost cried. Nodding to how he hadn’t spilled a single drop of the smoothie, she murmured, “That’s talent.”