He chokes on a laugh, and I know he disagrees and wants to deny it, but I don’t let him.
“Don’t shake your head at me. You can think whatever you like, but so can I. And I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever met.”
One corner of his lips holds a smile. “I like you too.”
The relief—and fear—that crashes through me is almost too much. “Okay. Good.”
Good. His arms loop around my neck.
“Umm … what does this mean? Are we dating or … or boyfriends?”
He sucks in a sharp inhale. “Boyfriends.”
“Yeah?”
Yeah.
“Okay.” My hand shakes as I brush his hair back again. Screw holding out for my forever person. Screw the six months with no dating.
Ziggy’s exactly who I want.
Now I have to shut up that voice telling me that I’m making the same mistakes I always do.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
ZIGGY
Ijolt awake, confused by the pressure against my front, and blink down at the person sleeping next to me. Kennedy’s crushing my arm under his weight, and his scent has filled my pillows and sheets in a way that makes me lightheaded for a moment.
He’s here.
I … am so confused.
Drips of memory from last night come back to me, and unlike last time, it’s a fraction easier to believe it happened. Easier, because we’re both tangled together, almost naked. And my arm is getting pins and needles.
I try to slide it out without waking him, but when he only cuddles it tighter, I give up. I clear my throat loudly, giving my arm a solid tug, and while I’d love for him to keep sleeping sweetly, my arm isreallyfucking sore.
Except apparently, he’s impossible to wake up. He goes on sleeping while I lose all feeling in my arm.
“K-Kennedy?” I try, but it’s so soft I have no hope of waking him that way. Why can’t I have a deep voice? A loud, confident one? The kind of voice where no one would have anything to tease me about anytime I opened my mouth.
When it comes to Kennedy, I know I trust him. I know logically that I’m safe with him, and he’d never be someone who’d ridicule my flaws. But it’s so goddamn hard to forget all the times I tried to speak up for myself, and it only made things worse.
To me, speaking has always been stressful. It’s always been a land mine of abuse. Even with all this distance between me and my tormentors, speaking is associated with pain. Fear. Embarrassment.
It’s easier to rewire an entire house than my own brain.
I’m so tired of being scared.
I wouldn’t talk either if I sounded like that.
I know I’ve come a long way from the boy who wouldn’t say a word, but I hate that it’s still so hard. That I can’t even wake the man I feel safe with and not feel like my throat is closing over.
He asked why I’m not scared of the dark.
The dark has always been where I’ve escaped.
