He takes my hand, and we walk down the stairs like that—even though no one’s looking. But I’m looking. And I’m liking this. “You’re holding my hand,” I whisper. He starts to let go. “I was…practicing.” “We’re getting good at that. Practicing.” There’s a slight hitch in his breath, then he grits out, “We are.” I grab hold tighter on his hand so he can’t stop. “Keep practicing.”
