But in order for me to trust him, he needs to trustmewith whatever he hasn’t said. With whatever he’s carrying around in the form of guilt and shame. He needs to talk and it isn’t my job to force him.
I’ll let him stay.
I’ll let us have this—something to fight for. Because thereissomething to fight for, somethingIwant to fight for anddidfight for even after he left. I need him to match my fight, and I think he just might.
Just need to have a little blind faith.
I finally pull my face out of my pillow and get out of bed. Knowing Christian, there are two ways this could go. Either he will be downstairs or at the gym, but all his stuff will still be in his room.Orhe’s taken his stuff out and is living in his car again to give me space.
In my sleep shorts and obscenely oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt that was once Christian’s, I pad barefoot down the stairs. By the time I reach the bottom, I hear the glass of plates clinking together and the opening and closing of a drawer coming from the kitchen. “Congratulations” by Mac Miller playing in the back—a song he always sang along to in the car while holding my hand and looking at me with every few lines. At red lights and stops signs, he’d kiss me and murmur the lyrics against my lips, and I’d smile against his.
Christian is a terrible singer, can’t sing for the life of him, but he sang along anyway—tried to—and we were happy.
And he’s here.
He’s here and he’s listening to that song. I could never bring myself to listen to it.
I feel a shiver deep in my gut and go to the kitchen. He’s wearing navy drawstring pajama pants, the waistband of his Calvin’s showing slightly, and is entirely shirtless.
Christian’s back is toward me—his smooth tan skin protecting the rippling muscles underneath as he moves around. His voice laps over Mac Miller’s, singing along while he’s filling two plates.
I lean against a wall and watch him, smiling to myself.
“‘Baby, you were everything I ever wanted, bought a wedding ring, it's in my pocket. Planned to ask the other day, knew you'd run away, so I guess I just forgot it..’”
“Hey,” I say.
Christian jumps, startled, and drops a slice of bacon on the ground. I snicker and round the island to pick it up. “Hey,” he breathes.
“You’re still here.”
An adorable, boyish grin. “I made breakfast.”
“I see.” I peer down at the stove. Omelets with cheese and ham, bacon, and French toast. “Thank you.”
Christian shrugs and I want to hug him—kiss him. His dad was one fucked up demon who convinced Christian that everything he did was wrong or wasn’t enough. Christian was always an angel of a man, heaven as a person.Myheaven and peace as a person.
His hand cups my cheek, his thumb smoothing out the frown tugging my lips. “What’s wrong?”
I shake my head slightly, leaning into the touch. “Just thinking.”
Boundaries.
I take a step back and out of his touch, breaking my own heart in the process.
“I’ll make pancakes tomorrow,” he says, putting an omelet on a plate. “If you?—”
“You can stay,” I say, snatching the full plate from his hands and sitting at the other side of the island. “But the key comes with conditions.”
Christian finishes filling his plate and joins me at the island. “Anything.”
I have nothing. No conditions. Telling him no alcohol is obvious. He told me to put a little faith and I am. I’m trusting that he already knows that boundary.
“Well…”
“I know the first, what’s the second?”
I blink. “What’s the first?”
