The shelf was high enough that she normally used a step stool.
I reached up, got both hands around the box, and started lowering it when my foot slipped against the wooden edge.
Michelle moved instantly.
Her hands caught my waist.
I steadied myself.
But she did not let go.
I turned.
She stood directly behind me.
Too close.
Her hands remained against my sides.
Her face was only inches away.
Neither of us breathed normally.
“Got you,” she whispered.
“Yeah.”
Her hands slowly fell away.
That night we sat on the couch again.
Music played quietly from her phone.
We talked about camping trips, terrible movies, my disastrous middle-school haircut.
It felt familiar.
Safe.
Then her knee touched mine.
She didn’t move it.
Neither did I.
Minutes passed.
Her foot shifted until it rested lightly against my ankle.
I looked at her.
Michelle’s expression had changed.
No teasing.
