Page 28 of Brick’s Anchor

But Brick is different. Special. He's not like any man I've ever known. There's no pretense with him. No facade. No nice-guy persona hiding a monster underneath. He just is. Brutally honest about his violence, about his darkness, about liking things most people would lie about. He admitted he likes breaking bones and didn't apologize for it. Didn't try to soften it or make it palatable.

He's exactly what he claims to be.

And that honesty is the sexiest thing I've ever encountered.

Why couldn't I have met him before? Before I wasted two years on a man who smiled while planning my destruction? Before I learned that trust is a weapon people use against you? Why does the universe have this cruel sense of timing? Showing me what I could have had after I've already been destroyed?

"Don't go," Brick says.

I look at him. He's still sitting on the edge of his bed, relaxed but watchful. Like he's giving me space to decide while making his preference clear.

"I should," I say, but I don't move.

"Why?"

"Because if I stay—" I stop myself. Can't finish that sentence. Can't admit what I'm thinking.

"Stay," he says. "For a little while. If you want."

I want.

God, I want so badly it hurts.

I cross the room and sit next to him on the bed. Close enough that our shoulders almost touch. Closer than we've ever been. I can smell him now: motor oil, leather and clean male sweat. It should repulse me. Should trigger every defense mechanism I've built in the last week.

Instead, it makes me want to lean closer.

"You know," Brick says, his voice low, "one day you'll look back at this and it'll be nothing but an awful story to tell people. The worst week of your life that you survived and moved past."

I chuckle. Can't help it. "I don't think I'll be sharing this with anyone besides a psychologist."

He chuckles back, the sound rumbling through his chest. "That's also a nice decision."

We're both laughing now. Real laughs. Not polite or forced or performative. Just genuine amusement at the absurdity of trying to make trauma into dinner party conversation.

And I can't help but think… When was the last time I felt this happy? This free?

Not with my ex. Never with him. Every laugh was calculated, every smile checked to make sure it was the right one, every moment of joy measured against whether it would set him off.

But here, now, with this man who breaks bones for a living and reads books about war, I'm laughing. Actually laughing.

I look at him.

He looks back.

And for a moment, nothing else exists. Not the warehouse. Not the trauma. Not my declarations about hating all men. Just this, this bubble where it's only us, the rain and the possibility of something I don't have words for yet.

I watch in slow motion as he closes his eyes and leans toward me.

This is happening.

This is actually happening and I have no idea if it's the right time or the right decision or anything resembling smart, but it feels right. It feels like the first right thing in forever.

I close my eyes too and wait.

His lips meet mine and—

Fuck.