When my brain functions again, I rewind and all I can wonder is whether this feeling of not wanting to leave my room—of not wanting to leave me—surprised him after he revealed his tattoo. After he was vulnerable in front of me.

Yes, my brain says. Most likely.

Can I drop my guard just the same? Can I express more emotion than I usually do? I don’t think he’s testing me, but maybe I need to test myself.

He watches me, waiting for a vocal response.

I open my mouth to say you can hug me but my tongue is dry and my throat closes.

His brows scrunch. “You nervous?”

I nod. “This would be a first…for me.” He knows that, Willow. I cringe a little but try to wipe it away with a weak smile. “I’m not touchy-feely or anything like that.”

Garrison’s eyes soften like he’s trying to understand me. “Would it be bad if I touched you?”

I can hardly look up at him, my gaze dropping to the floor. “Um…” I swallow. “I don’t think so. It’ll just be new, and sometimes new things are frightening.” My heart thuds so hard and so fast.

“Willow,” he murmurs.

I look up, our eyes lock, and he sets his hands on my shoulders. I hold in a breath. His palms—they slide slowly to my biceps, his skin heating my skin, and then they slip around me, to my back. He draws me tenderly to his chest.

My feet just barely cooperate and step closer.

Garrison leans his head down, his jaw skimming my cheek, his arms wrapped around me, and mine hang uncertainly.

He helps me. He lifts one of my hands and places it on his waist. I follow with the other. My touch is feather-light, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Garrison pulls me tighter, his body warm and comforting. In comparison, mine is awkward and stiff. He holds the back of my head, and his breath tingles my ear as he whispers, “This okay?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, so softly.

“You’re shaking.” He draws his head back, just a fraction, and I realize my arms and legs are trembling, out of anxiety.

“It’s just a lot…not bad.” I wish I could express my feelings better, but maybe that’s the problem. So much has suddenly poured through me, so many foreign sentiments, that my system is basically overloading.

Willow Moore at approximately 115% capacity. Delete or reboot.

I don’t want to delete anything with him.

Before he speaks, I ask, “Am I hurting you?” My hands are barely pressing on his ribs, but I just want to make sure.

“No.” He pauses. “Am I hurting you?”

“No.”

He nods a couple times again. Then he lets me go, his arms falling—then mine do too, but he never takes a step back. I worry about the second hug, now that the first has ended. I wonder if I’ll grow used to this embrace in time.

“Will you alert me?” I ask him. “Next time you hug me again?”