Page 106 of Mending Hearts
His breath catches.
“And you don’t get to decide what I deserve without asking me.”
“I know,” he whispers. He looks wrecked in a way that’s raw. “I hated myself for not being braver,” he admits. “For not standing next to you when it mattered.”
“You came back,” I say.
He holds my gaze. “I’m not leaving again.”
The conviction in his voice makes my chest ache.
We talk for a long time.
About rehab. About the loneliness of it. About the first AA meeting I almost walked out of. About the shame of admitting I couldn’t control it anymore.
He listens. Really listens.
He’s not defensive when I say things that I know might hurt. He doesn’t interrupt. The whole time, he simply absorbs more story.
“I didn’t know how bad it was,” he says finally.
“I didn’t let you.”
“You were drowning.”
“So were you.”
That lands.
He nods slowly. “We were two scared kids with too much spotlight,” he murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“And no one ahead of us.”
“Yeah.”
The air shifts, no longer feeling heavy. It’s fresh and cleared… like something long festering finally got oxygen.
He reaches for my hand again, threading our fingers together. “We still have stuff to figure out,” he says quietly.
“I know. But I’m not angry the way I was.”
Relief moves through him visibly. “I’m not scared the way I was either,” he admits.
That one hits me deeper than anything else. I stand and slide under the covers beside him, keeping to my side of the bed.
Slow.
We saidslow.
The mattress dips slightly with my weight. He turns his head toward me. Fuck, he’s beautiful like this. Soft. Open. Hair messy from the shower. Skin warm under lamplight.
My body notices immediately. My cock stirs against the fabric of my boxers like it has its own opinions about the pace of things. I exhale a little brokenly and stare at the ceiling for a second, willing myself to be an adult.
Slow, I remind myself.
But as he watches me—eyes steady, lips parted—I can’t ignore the truth.
