he said.
I dropped the controller in his lap, folding my arms over my chest. “Kota, they said to take it easy. They didn’t say baby me.”
Kota did a tiny eye roll and picked up the controller, passing it to me. “All right. One more time.”
We did the same course again, the same race. There were five other cars besides ours. This time when we started, Kota took off right from the start. I managed to make my way into third, but ended up tailing the computer-controlled second place car.
When we got to the sharp turn again, I slipped again, crashing. Before the game corrected my car, Kota’s car zoomed over the finish line.
“You can’t take the sharp turns head-on,” he said, dropping the controller into his lap. “You have to hit the brake.”
“You can’t slow down. It’s a race,” I said, finishing the lap and ending up second to last again. “You sped through the whole thing.”
“I braked at the turns,” he said. “And I drifted when I needed to.”
“Drifted?”
Kota pushed the button on his controller, turning it off. “Here, play the next race.” He lifted his arm, tucking it around my back, leaning against me.
I stiffened, not meaning to, but his body was suddenly pressing up against mine. It made it hard to focus. I pressed the buttons and started the race, but I was thinking about his hip up against mine, and his fingertips tracing along my collarbone.
“Ignore the other racers for a moment,” he said. “When you get up to the next turn, hang on to the brake and turn your car. When you even out again, release the brake and hit the boost full on.”
This was the Kota I was familiar with. I kind of liked when he took time with me to teach me something new. I tried focusing on the race. I avoided the other cars, got up to a good turn, and slapped at the brakes. The car came to a complete dead stop in the middle of the track. “That doesn’t work.”
“You’re going in too slow on the turn,” he said. His hand dropped down on my knee. “Don’t slow down when you get there. You can keep your finger on the gas, just hit the brake and turn at the same time.”
I tried again, but while I was racing, Kota traced his knuckles along the top of my calf, sliding smoothly against my skin. It was a gentle motion, almost absentminded as his eyes stayed on the game.
But that tiny bit of movement set my heart thundering.
At the next turn in the game, my car started to drift, but as his fingers traced back up toward my knee, my thumbs slipped and my car spun around until it was facing the opposite direction.
I released a small noise, expressing a bit of pent up tension he had instilled in me from his touch and from failing again. I bit my lip, trying to get myself to focus.
At the next turn, I managed to drift, but it was cut short and my car shook a little from side to side before I managed to straighten it out.
Kota tapped at my leg with his knuckles. “You’re getting better.”
“I’m wobbly,” I said.
“It takes practice.” His fingers slid down my calf until he caught my foot hanging off the side of his leg. He picked it up, bringing it closer. He bent over my knees to inspect my toes.
“Kota...” His tug at my legs had me bending away from him. I had to sit up awkwardly, readjusting so I didn’t fall off the bean bag chair.
“Polish doesn’t last very long, does it?” He traced his fingertips over my toes, poking at the chip marks across the beautiful pink flowers Gabriel had painted for me a couple of weeks ago.
I’d known it’d been chipping, but I didn’t have the heart to take the polish off. “Gabriel said he was going to redo it sometime. He hasn’t had a day off in a while.”
He nudged my legs until my feet were on the floor and he got up. “Hang on a second,” he said. “Keep practicing.”
When he thudded up the stairs to his bedroom again, I breathed out a sigh, settling into the chair. Maybe I was making too much of being alone with him