The kind that makes me feel like the sexiest woman alive.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask about it.” His voice is low, husky. Shivers prickle down my spine.
He reaches behind him and flips a switch, turning on soft lights that illuminate the headboard, like the kind you find in a hotel. Leave it to Matt to have every bell and whistle, even when it comes to lighting.
He sits up, forcing me to as well, and suddenly, I feel very naked… because I am.
It’s not a big deal. He’s my husband. He’s seen me naked a thousand times. But I still feel self-conscious. Exposed. Vulnerable. Flawed.
“Can I wear one of your T-shirts?”
He hesitates, eyes dragging over me like he’s engraving every inch into memory.
“You can,” he murmurs. “But let me look at you a little longer first.”
Heat flashes through me, my cheeks burning, a slow pulse building between my thighs.
Jesus. I’m turned on by him just looking at me?
He gets his fill, then walks to his suitcase and grabs a shirt. When he slides back into bed beside me, he hands it over.
I toss the shirt over my head and snuggle up beside him, his arm wrapping around me.
“In rehab, there was a lot of therapy. Working the twelve steps. Taking accountability. Finding something to believe in.”
My pulse ticks faster. I’m not ready to hear about rehab, but I don’t want to stop him.
“We also had a lot of reading and writing time.” He clears his throat, abs flexing—I can’t help but notice. “They had a lot of books on stoicism. It’s something that’s always piqued my interest, but I guess I never really took the time to understand it. I started reading about it my second week there.”
He pauses, and I turn to look at him. His jaw is set tight, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t really know how to explain it, but… it changed me. You know I’ve never been a faith guy. I’ve never needed things to make sense. But I needed something to believe in there. Something to make it all make sense. Like if I could just understand why. Why this happened. Why to me. Why I lostyou. Why I needed rehab…” He trails off, his eyes closing. His chest rises and falls, and I feel the warmth of his exhale kiss my forehead.
“One of the main principles is accepting what’s beyond our control. What happened had already happened. I couldn’t change it. But what I could do was accept it. Realize that everything from here on out was up to me. My thoughts. My emotions. My actions. Sometimes we can’t control the situation, but we can always control how we choose to react to it. And if we align ourselves with the universe, keep learning and growing, shifting when we do, trusting the process, we set ourselves up for a lifetime of happiness.”
He gives my shoulder a soft squeeze. “And then there are four fundamentals of stoicism: wisdom, temperance, courage, and justice. That’s what the lion, owl, and lotus represent.” He gestures to the images on his forearm. “And this scale? That’s for justice.” He lifts his arm, showing me the back of his bicep.
“The whole sleeve is for everything that’s made me who I am today. What’s made me stronger, better, and what reminds me of the man I want to be.”
“And what about the anchor?” I ask, brushing my fingers over his bicep. No sooner are the words out than I realize my initials are etched at the core of it.
The corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s you, babe. I told you the other day, you’re my anchor. The day you came into my life was the day I found where I was going. You ground me. Make me stronger. You make me want to be the best version of myself.”
My throat swells, and I try not to blink as moisture fills my eyes. “What if we get divorced?”
He just shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”
I stare at him, stunned. Speechless.
He tattooed my initials on his arm knowing I’d filed for divorce.
It’s so incredibly stupid. And yet, somehow, it means more to me than words could ever explain.
His fingers find mine, and I turn toward him, eyes glistening. “What are the dates on the anchor?” There’s one on each side.
“This one’s the day I got clean,” he says, pointing to the first. “The day I chose to change my future.” His eyes burn into mine. “That’s not changing. Ever.”
I nod slowly. “And this one?” I ask, pointing to the second. It’s a random date, five and a half years ago.
