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he’s still a ghost. they all are. but now, when he goes to take julie’s hand in his, he’s able to curl their fingers together. able to feel the warmth of her skin against his, able to run his thumb over the inside of her wrist and watch goosebumps appear on her arm.
he wonders if the goosebumps are because of him. he knows the stutterstop in his breathing is because of her.
//
he doesn’t realize how late it is until julie yawns and he glances at the clock on her nightstand. he starts to gather up the papers covering her bed, but stops when he feels her feet slide underneath his legs.
smiling, he moves so that her toes are pressed firmly between his legs and the blankets. “your toes cold, jules?”
she meets his eyes, shaking her head and directing him to the bridge of the song again. he nods and finds the corresponding paper, setting it against her legs and using them as a music stand.
her laugh makes his breath catch. he clears his throat and suggests, “uh, reggie. you sing the bridge this time.”
//
he thinks she’s doing it on purpose, but he doesn’t ask.
he doesn’t want to be wrong (doesn’t think that he is), but it happens so often that he becomes accustomed to the chill of julie’s toes against his skin. he still feels this thrill all over again every time it happens - the thrill that this is real, that he’s a source of warmth for her in a way he won’t ever fully understand or find himself worthy of.
he sees the way she smiles when he squeezes her ankle gently, and -
yeah, he’s pretty sure it’s on purpose.
//
years later, when she’s on a flight back home after their last night of tour, he shows up in the empty seat next to her.
she’s exhausted, he knows. weeks of touring, weeks of performing, weeks of traveling. there’s a few pieces of glitter still in her hair, a soft smudge of eyeliner on her cheek where it’s pressed against her pillow as she dozes.
he remembers the first time he sat next to her on a flight like this. remembers writing wicked beauty while she slept.
(he’d shared it with her the next morning. the sunlight was no comparison to her smile.)
when she greets him, her voice is quiet, warm, ragged. he lets his head thunk back against his seat and just watches her, wishing that just once he could muster up the strength (tell himself it isn’t selfish) to tell her -
“don’t say it,” she whispers.
he nods. knows he shouldn’t. “i won’t.”
instead, he tells her about the box in the garage, his hands curled over her legs where they rest on his lap. when she takes his hand, he squeezes it, looking down to memorize the image of her fingers intertwined with his.
when she wakes, he’ll tell her he can feel something shifting in his soul. tell her that alex and reggie have started to feel it, too. that they’re ready, they’ll always be with her, that it won’t be forever.
he thinks of the box in the garage, of the socks he’s left there, and smiles. curls his free hand over her toes and, when she doesn’t stir, whispers aloud, “i love you, julie.”
the conversation they’ll have in the morning is going to hurt her, he knows.
for now, he’ll keep her warm.