“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to talk to me.”
“I can’t,” she whispers, her voice cracking like porcelain. “I just need to go.”
“You don’t have to do that. If you need space, you can take the bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“I don’t deserve your kindness.”
What the fuck is happening?I focus on what’s tangible. “Let’s get your pills so your headache doesn’t get worse,” I say firmly, standing and offering my hand.
For a moment, she just stares at it, and I can see the conflict in her eyes like she’s not sure if my hand is a lifeline or a threat.
Finally, her fingers close around mine, and I gently pull her up. Once she’s on her feet, she drops my hand, cutting off the contact.
I’m so confused; my head feels scrambled, but I know her too well to push.
In the bathroom, she takes her pills, then clutches the sink as she brushes her teeth. I do the same, but there’s no easy chatter or laughter between us now. There’s nothing but tense silence. She taps the excess water off her toothbrush and slides it into her travel case instead of the holder we’ve been sharing. It’s a small action that feels like a massive shift.
Patience isn’t my strength. But for her, I always find it. She brings out my better qualities and instincts. I want to be what she needs. I want to be someone who understands that when she’s overwhelmed, crowding and pushing her won’t help. I can’t take her reactions personally. That’s the hardest part. No one wants to hand over their heart only to watch the person they’ve offered it to crumble. It feels like shit, but I’m trying.
She meets my gaze in the mirror, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion and something deeper. “I’m so sorry,” she murmurs again, and I know she means it.
“Please stop apologizing, Lex. It’s not necessary.”
“Of course, it is. I can only imagine how you’re feeling, and I can’t make it any better right now. That’s not fair, and I hate that I’m hurting you.”
The more she says, the less I understand. But seeing to her comes first. “Do you want a heated blanket?” I ask. “I ordered something similar to the cordless one you have. It’s in the closet.”
“You bought me a heated blanket?”
“I know it brings you comfort. I wanted to keep one here in case you needed it.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “You’re always so kind and thoughtful, and I’m being terrible to you.”
“Lex, stop that. I fell in love with you because you’re warm and caring. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not you being terrible.”
She wipes at her cheeks, looking lost, guilty, and fragile. It tears at me to see her like this, but I don’t know how to help when I don’t even know what’s wrong. I get her the blanket, which is already charged, and turn it on. Once she climbs into the bed, I drape it over her. “How’s your head?”
“The meds are kicking in.”
“Good. Try to get some rest.”
She burrows into the blanket’s warm softness, pulling it tightly around her with only her eyes peeking out the top as if warding off the world—and me.
“Do you need anything else before I go?”
“No,” she whispers. “But please don’t sleep on the couch. I’ll feel worse if you do.”
“You don’t have to feel bad?—”
“Please, just stay.”
“All right.” I take off my shirt and slide into bed beside her, still wearing my sweatpants. An hour ago, in this same spot, we were in the throes of pleasure. Now we’re in some kind of bizarre and distant hell. I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help myself. “Can I hold you?”
I hear her sniffle before she responds in a small voice, “If you do, I’ll fall apart.”
“If you fall apart, Lex, I’ll catch every piece and put you back together.”
