I believe it.
That I’m beautiful. Desirable. Powerful.
That I’m worth wanting.
He doesn’t just see my body—he worships it.
Every soft curve, every scar, every hidden place I was taught to hide.
He makes me feel like fire and silk and moonlight, like I’m wild and sacred all at once.
And when he’s inside me—whispering my name like a vow, holding me like I’m the only thing tethering him to earth—I feel whole.
I didn’t know sex could be like that.
I didn’t knowIcould be like that.
But with Thatcher, I am.
With him, I’m not just surviving.
I’m alive. I’m enough.
My favorite part? The way he holds my hand every time we walk from the office to the lunchroom or the truck.
He opens doors. Pulls me into his side when no one’s looking and kisses me like the air between us is a sin.
And I’m starting to crave that affection.To need it.
Which scares the hell out of me.
But I’m so tired of being scared.
Tired of waiting for something to go wrong.
Tired of punishing myself for being alive.
Tired of living like I don’t deserve joy.
I shove that voice down—the one that saysdon’t get used to it. The one that always whispersit won’t last.
“Shut up,” I murmur to myself.
Because I’m done listening to ghosts.
I made it out. I’m healing.
Slowly, yeah.
But it’s happening. And I can feel this future solidifying around me like it’s mine.
I’m going to stop running.
Not just from Dan—but from the fear he left behind.
So I decide right then, as I’m organizing payroll receipts and sipping lukewarm coffee, that I’m going to tell Thatcher everything.
All of it.
