But if I can perform myself out of a soul-destroying trailer park and a life doomed with flaws and demonic rages, then I sure as fuck can drag every part of my life into order for the one miracle I didn’t deserve but got anyway, the one woman whose existence rewired everything broken in me.
We fall into a rhythm that feels so good it’s a little terrifying and dangerous. And damn exhilarating.
She writes. She curls up on the couch with her laptop, humming under her breath, and I sometimes stop mid-conversation to just watch her.
She cooks once and burns half of it, then laughs so hard she drops the pan.
I eat it anyway.
And we fuck.Often.
Slow sometimes, rough others, wild more often than not. And she hums for me every time, even when she tries not to, and the sound runs under my skin like a pulse that isn’t mine.
We sleep tangled together and sweaty, wrapped up like we’re afraid the world will try to pry us apart.
And every morning, when I wake up inside her, I feel something that scares me far more than rage ever has.
Hope.
The WeekBefore Europe
She sitsat the edge of the bed one morning, her beautiful blonde hair tousled from my fingers and tumbling over her shoulder.
I tense when I see her fingers worrying the sheets.
“I want to go home for a few days,” she says softly.
Something in my spine locks. “What do you mean? Where?” I ask, even though I know.
“Oregon.”
My body goes stiff enough she notices.
“I want to see my family before we go to Europe,” she continues carefully. “Just for a few days.”
I breathe slow.
Ruby notices every breath I take now. She knows when I’m on edge. She knows when the first sparks of mania flicker in my skull. I’m gearing for the mother of all fights if she…if she?—
She reaches for my hand. “We can go together,” she offers quietly. “If you want?”
It disarms me and I forget to exhale.
“Breathe, baby,” she urges softly.
My lungs expand painfully. “Yes, absolutely,” I rasp. “We’ll go together. I’ll get Carl to organize the jet.”
Her face softens and she smiles, then she leans in and kisses my jaw. “You sure?” she echoes. “It’s not very exciting.”
“I’d follow you to a kingdom made entirely of week-old porridge.”
She giggles. “Eww, hope that’s not a new lyric for a song, Draven,” she says, but I can see the mixture of relief and resignation that hits her.
She thinks this is compromise.
It isn’t.
It’sstrategy.
