Page 194 of This Life of Mine

I can’t seem to get enough of her laugh. Her voice. The way she absentmindedly tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. Or the way she directs her eyes toward me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.

And I definitely can’t get enough of sharing a bed with her every night.

Most men probably get used to having the woman they love around all the time. If anything, the opposite has happened to me. The more time I spend with Lina, the more impossible it becomes to keep my hands off her and stay away.

Everything about her draws me in. Even when she’s not trying. Especially when she’s not trying.

And still—there were moments I could feel her bracing.

Before plans with friends. Before nights out. Before decisions that should’ve been simple. She’d ask instead of tell. Watch my reaction too closely. Like she was preparing for permission—or backlash.

I hated knowing someone had taught her that love came with conditions.

Then there were the clothes. She’d change outfits more than once. Tug fabric lower. Second-guess herself. Cover up a body she worked hard for. Strength she earned. Confidence she deserved. I had to tell her—more than once—that I loved how she looked in everything she wore. That I was proud of her discipline, her curves, her power. That I didn’t care if other menlooked. Hell, let them look. Because she’s stunning—and she chooses me.

Her moods scared her too.

She warned me about them like they were flaws. Different versions of her emerging depending on the week, the month, the hour. Intense. Soft. Emotional. Fiery.

She tried to contain it all, smooth herself down so she wouldn’t be too much. I told her not to hide any of it. That those shifting edges weren’t weaknesses—they were power. The kind only women carry.

What hit me hardest was realizing she didn’t know who she was allowed to be once I stepped in.

Her only experience with sharing space had been control. So she kept waiting for rules, for expectations. For the moment I’d correct her.

I saw it in the way she watched me—careful, alert, ready. And I stayed steady.

What I learned quickly was that what she needed most from me wasn’t reassurance—it was patience.

She’d lived under tight, manipulative control for so long that her instincts were wired around survival. Then she spent five years reclaiming herself in the only way she knew how—absolute freedom. No explanations or compromises. No one else’s expectations. Her life, her rules.

So when I stepped in—fully and consistently—it confused her.

It wasn’t because she didn’t want me there. It was because suddenly there was another presence in her space, another voice in her day, and she had no idea what healthy truly meant. She only knew two ways to exist in close quarters. Doubt and fear. Or defiance.

Either shrinking herself down, waiting for criticism, or swinging hard in the opposite direction—this is my life, don’t touch it, don’t question it, don’t crowd me.

I saw both versions surface.

Moments where she second-guessed every decision, watched my reactions too closely. And others where she’d plant her feet, daring the world to challenge her autonomy. Neither was wrong. Both were learned. And neither needed correcting.

So I slowed myself down.

I didn’t push. Didn’t claim space that wasn’t offered. Didn’t assume access to her time, her body, her routines. I let her lead when she needed to. Stepped back when she bristled. Stayed close without hovering.

Patience isn’t passive—it’s active. And it meant choosing restraint when instinct told me to fix, reassure, or claim. It meant understanding that her reactions weren’t about me—they were echoes of lives she’d already lived.

In time, I watched her find a third way of living. By choice.

She began responding instead of reacting. Questioning instead of assuming. Allowing me entry without a sense of sacrifice. Learning that sharing space didn’t mean losing herself. And every time she trusted me with another inch of that space, I treated it like something sacred.

That trust changed the way I showed up.

Chapter fifty-nine

Alex

Helping at the bakery seemed like the logical thing to do. I was going to be there, anyway. Might as well make myself useful.