“I learned to shrink,” she continues softly. “To take up less space. To apologize for existing. And when I finally left, when I finally chose myself, I felt like I’d failed at the one thing I was supposed to be good at. Being someone’s wife.”
“You didn’t fail.” The words come out rough, almost angry. “He did. He had someone—” I stop, struggle to find the right words. “He had you. And he made you feel like that was a burden instead of a gift.”
Her breath catches.
“You’re not too much, Marcella.” I’m not good at this—at words, at feelings, at any of the things that come naturally to people who haven’t spent four years hiding from the world. But I need her to understand. Need her to know. “You’re not too loud or too passionate or too anything. You’re?—”
I can’t finish. Don’t have the vocabulary for what she is.
But she’s looking at me like I’ve given her something precious, and her hands are still warm on my leg, and the fire crackles, and the storm howls, and I’m so tired of being alone.
“Marcella…”
One moment we’re looking at each other across the space between us, and the next moment there is no space. Her mouth is soft against mine, tentative at first, like a question. I answerit with everything I can’t say—all the loneliness and longing and desperate, impossible hope that’s been building since she turned around in my kitchen with that wooden spoon raised like a weapon.
She makes a sound against my lips. Surprise, maybe. Or relief. Her hands slide up from my leg to my chest, fingers curling into my flannel, and I’m lost.
This is what I’ve been missing. This is what I’ve been hiding from. Not just touch—connection. The terrifying, exhilarating feeling of being seen by someone and not wanting to run.
I pull her closer, one hand in her hair, the other splayed across her lower back. She’s warm and soft and she fits against me like she was designed for it. Like we were designed for this, for each other, for?—
Panic hits like a fist to the chest.
I jerk back so fast she nearly falls forward, my breath coming in sharp gasps that have nothing to do with desire. What am I doing? What the hell am I doing? I’ve known this woman for twenty-four hours. She broke into my house by accident. She was supposed to be on a date with someone else. And I’m kissing her like she’s the answer to questions I didn’t know I was asking.
“Finn?” Marcella’s voice is worried now, her kiss-swollen lips parted in confusion. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. Nothing. I can’t breathe.
I stand abruptly, nearly knocking her over in my haste to put distance between us. My leg screams in protest—she barely finished the massage—but I ignore it. Cross to the window. Press my hands flat against the cold glass and count my breaths.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
“I’m sorry,” I manage. The words feel like they’re coming from very far away. “I shouldn’t have—that was?—”
“Finn.” She’s behind me now, close enough that I can feel her warmth even without touching. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay.”
It’s not. It’s the opposite of okay.
I want her. Want her in ways I haven’t wanted anything since before the explosion that killed my team and ended my life in every way that matters. And wanting things is dangerous. Wanting things leads to having them, and having them leads to losing them, and I can’t?—
“I’m not good at this,” I say hoarsely, still facing the window. “People. Feelings. Any of it. I’ve spent four years making sure I wouldn’t have to be.”
“Why?”
The question is soft. Non-judgmental. Like she genuinely wants to know.
“Because losing things hurts less when you don’t have them in the first place.”
Silence. Then, even softer: “And is that working for you? The not-having?”
I close my eyes. See Jimmy’s face. Mikey. David. Tony. Jamal. All of them gone, and me still here, trying so hard not to feel anything that I’ve forgotten how to feel at all.
“No,” I admit. “No, it’s not.”
Her hand touches my shoulder. Light. Careful. Giving me every opportunity to pull away.
But I don’t.
