Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“Push,” I repeat.
“Push,” she confirms. “And don’t look at your feet.”
I immediately look at my feet.
Salem groans. “Ozzy.”
“I don’t want to die.”
“You won’t die,” she says. “You’ll just embarrass yourself.”
“That’s worse.”
Salem steps back onto her own board and glides forward, smooth and effortless. She turns her head to call over her shoulder, “Follow me.”
I push once. The board rolls, and I wobble. This shit is hard. My arms windmill like a man possessed.
Salem turns, eyes wide. “Stop flailing like that!”
“I’m not flailing!” I shout, flailing. “I’m adjusting.”
She bursts into laughter again, and it’s so contagious I start laughing too—even as I step off the board like it’s trying to murder me.
Salem skates in a circle around me, teasing. “I thought you were the tough guy.”
“I am tough,” I say. “I just prefer my violence… stationary.”
Salem snorts. “Okay, Mr. Keyboard Warrior.”
“I will end you,” I warn.
“With what,” she asks sweetly, “your inability to balance?”
I lunge for her, but she rolls away easily, laughing. I chase her on foot, and she keeps just out of reach, taunting me with little turns and stops like she’s dancing.
The sun warms the back of my neck. The air smells like pine. Salem’s laughter floats through the trees. For a few minutes, it almost feels like the world isn’t full of monsters. It almost feels like we’re just… two people.
I finally get back on the board. Salem guides me through pushing again, then rolling, then stopping. I manage a full ten seconds without looking like a complete amateur.
Salem claps dramatically. “Look at you! A baby deer learning to walk.”
I flip her off. “Your motivational style is toxic.”
“It’s effective,” she counters.
We skate for almost an hour, and by the end my legs feel like they’ve been personally attacked.
Salem’s cheeks are flushed, hair escaping the bun, eyes bright in a way I keep storing in my memory like ammunition against her bad days.
When we finally head inside, we’re both sweaty and laughing and starving.
We make lunch together—simple sandwiches and chips, fruit on the side—because Salem insists on eating like her body matters now, and I insist on not letting her slip back into survival habits. We sit at the counter, legs bumping sometimes. Okay, sure… it’s completely on purpose. At least on my end.
Salem bites into her sandwich and says, “Okay. Movie tonight?”
“Yep,” I say. “Pick your poison.”
Salem chews thoughtfully. “Something not depressing. I already lived depressing.”
I nod. “Fair.” I lean back slightly. “Juno has a scary movie podcast, by the way.”
Salem’s brows lift. “She does?”
“Yep,” I say. “She watches slashers and breaks them down like she’s analyzing enemy tactics.”
Salem smiles. “That’s… very cool.”
“It is,” I agree. “And she said the new slasher film is good.”
Salem hesitates. “I don’t love scary movies.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quickly.
She studies me, then shrugs. “We can try it.”
I grin. “Okay. Slasher it is.”
That night, we make popcorn and settle on the couch. I keep the lights low but not off, because I’m not an idiot. Salem’s nervous system doesn’t need to be surprised by darkness right now. She sits curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket, and a popcorn bowl in her lap.
I take the other side, close enough that our knees almost touch.
The movie starts with that familiar horror setup: quiet street, ominous music, someone alone. Salem tries to be brave for the first twenty minutes, but I can feel her tension building. Her shoulders rise. Her fingers grip the blanket tighter. Halfway through, the killer appears—mask, knife, heavy breathing in the soundtrack.
Salem’s popcorn stops moving. She goes still. Then the jump scare hits. Salem yelps and jerks so hard she spills popcorn everywhere. Her breath catches. She laughs at herself immediately, but her eyes are wide, and I see it.
I pause the movie.
Salem looks at me quickly, embarrassed. “I’m fine.”
I don’t argue. I just shift closer and open my arm. Salem hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then she scoots into me like she’s done it a hundred times, tucking her head against my shoulder. My arm wraps around her slowly, carefully. She fits perfectly against me, and I suddenly can no longer breathe.
Fuck.
Her breath stutters once, then eases.
I press my mouth lightly to her hair. “You don’t have to prove anything,” I murmur.
Salem’s voice is small. “I hate being scared.”
“I know,” I say.
She swallows. “Can we watch something else?”
“Yeah,” I say immediately. “We can watch cartoons. We can watch a baking show. We can watch paint dry.”
Salem snorts weakly. “Paint dry sounds thrilling.”
“I’ll narrate it,” I promise. “In a dramatic voice.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, and I feel it in my chest like relief.
I switch the movie to something lighter—some stupid action-comedy with explosions and jokes that don’t require emotional resilience. Salem stays pressed into my side. Her fingers curl lightly into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself. And as the minutes pass, I realize something I don’t say out loud: I like being her safe place.