Sweet Dandelion

“Why?” I can’t fathom why he would possibly want to move his office. That seems silly. Even though the place was sparsely decorated it was still his.

He shrugs, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. The watch on his left wrist reflects in the light. “Needed a change.”

We turn down a hall I’ve never been to before. There are a few doors we pass, most marked as a storage or supply closet. We pass a community room the school uses to rent out before making another turn and stopping in front of the final door.

“This place is way out of the way,” I comment as he stuffs his hand in his pocket, pulling out his key. “I don’t understand why you had to move all the way over here.”

He looks over at me, sliding the key into the lock. “That room was a little small. Kind of dark. I thought something different would be good and Mr. Gordon agreed.”

He opens the door, motioning for me to go inside first.

My breath catches and I nearly burst into tears taken off guard like I am.

His body heat presses behind me since I’m blocking his entry into the room.

But I can’t move. I’m frozen.

My right hand drifts up to my mouth, my fingers shaking.

“Dani?” He’s concerned, worried he’s done something wrong or perhaps even triggered something.

If he’s triggered anything it’s gratitude.

It’s only my fifth day of school, our fifth time meeting, and he’s gone out of his way to accommodate me already. This is the last thing I would expect him to do. He owes me nothing but he’s given me everything.

I stare out the window. At the sunlight. At the freedom he’s unknowingly handed to me. The blinds are open, bathing the room in a warm yellow hue. There are boxes of books and things sitting around, he’s not fully moved in, but his desk is here and instead of the chairs there’s a comfy looking loveseat.

I turn around and surprise us both by wrapping my arms around his middle and hugging him. I bury my face in his hard chest, damming back my tears, but they come anyway. I hate crying, but as they come I embrace them. I’m sure I’m ruining his shirt, but he doesn’t tell me to stop or push me away. A moment passes before he hesitantly wraps his arms around me and hugs me back.

Human touch—such a seemingly normal thing, but absolutely vital to our survival.

He doesn’t rush me, just lets me embrace my emotions.

I finally let him go, embarrassed, wiping my tear-stained eyes on the backs of my hands. Black smears them from the little bit of mascara I put on this morning and his shirt … yep, I ruined it.

“I’m a mess.” I laugh, trying to lighten the heavy cloud that’s settled. “I’m sorry about your shirt.”

He looks down at it and then at me. “It’s only a shirt.”

I take a step away from him so he can enter his office. He passes me a tissue from a box I didn’t notice on his desk and bends down, rummaging through a duffel bag. I sniffle, drying the last of my tears. I feel ridiculous, losing my cool over something so simple, but I wasn’t prepared for his kind gesture.

I mean, he asked the principal to give him a new office because he knew how much it would mean to me to not feel singled out by having to go to the conference room. I throw the tissue away in a small wastebasket by the door and squeak when I turn around to find his bare, muscled back right in front of me.

He turns at the sound, slipping the black cotton shirt down over his abs.

I swallow thickly, wishing the racing in my heart wasn’t because I find my counselor attractive.

“Sorry about that.” He grabs the chair from behind his desk, pulling it around in front of it. Waving his hand, he indicates the loveseat to my left. “Have a seat.”

“Oh, yeah, right.” I shake my head. I’m flustered from this whole situation.

“What’s on your arm?” he asks, leaning forward and wrapping his hand around my wrist, turning my arm over so the black numbers glare up at him. He raises a brow, giving me a half-smile. He releases my arm and sits back.

“A phone number,” I answer, even though he already knows that.

“Making friends?”

“Making … something,” I finish with a small shrug. His brow arches again and I explain, “I don’t know what Ansel is.”