But there’s no part of me that will let him think I don’t want to see him.
I do.
Every single line. Every single mark.
I want to map each one out. To know where they are. If they hurt.
Where they came from.
Draping the blanket over top of us, I pull it up to his neck.
“It’ll get better in a sec, just breathe.” It’s choppy at best and water-logged.
The urge to stroke his back is so strong that I thunk my head back against the wall and force my hands to stick to his hips. They start to shake, the tips going numb.
Not now, fuck.
Breathing deep to keep my anger in check, I wiggle around him just enough to pull off my shirt.
Chest to chest … his face buried in my neck … skin searing mine … his sobs soften.
It all has a fresh wave of moisture collecting in my eyes.
“I’m so damn sorry, bubbles,” I whisper into his messy hair, the sight of his scars burned into the backs of my eyelids, my chest toting more weight than I already carried.
“N-no more—” he sniffs hard, his body jerking, “—apologies.”
My heart thumps painfully behind its cage.
“Fuck, baby, you’re right. No more.”
I say it, and I mean it, even with the loaded admissions sitting heavy on my tongue.
No more apologies.
Chapter 61
Tristen
Even though I waiteduntil he was snoring in a ball on the corner of the bed to leave, his shirt back in place, I still feel like shit that I did.
Hatley wouldn’t stop calling me.
I’m worn down. Exhausted. Running on guilt and fumes.
I was four hours late for my shift and it still feels like I ran a marathon.
Leftovers from the firehouse hang heavy on my aching elbow and I hide my wince as I reach to knock on Emmett’s door.
He’s inside, and so is my duffel bag from last night, but it doesn’t feel right to just … walk in.
Because while he lived here before, this was never really his home.
Our house should be his home.
Get it together, Ten.
Shaking my head, a reach to tap on the door again when it feels like it’s been too long.
