“And if that answer is Ask Again Later or Very Doubtful or Yes, you just bring me that ball, knowing that everything is going to be just fine. We are.” My mouth is dry. “Nash…” He brings his lips to just almost touch mine, a silent reminder that I don’t have to say a word, that he has never and will never demand from me anything that I don’t want to give. I’ve spent my life tiptoeing around glass and walking through minefields, but Nash is steady. Nash is pale blue skies. Nash is grass and mud, wide-open spaces, worn leather. Nash is mine.
