“Emma, look at me. Please.”
I lift my head.
“You always have a choice with me,” he says. “Always. At any time. If something doesn't feel right, you tell me, and we stop. No matter what.” His grip on my hands tightens gently. “I'm proud of you for finding the strength to leave him. And I swear to you, I will never let him hurt you again.”
I let out a shaky breath. “You can't be with me twenty-four seven, Kai.”
“Don't worry about that.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.” His eyes hold mine. “If it was up to me, I'd spend every day with you. Learning what you need. What makes you laugh. What makes you come alive.”
I shake my head. “You'll get tired of me.”
“Try me, Emma.”
“Do you want some tea?” The words come out rushed. “I don't have alcohol. I don't keep it around. I have tea. Chamomile, or this ginger blend that's supposed to be good for everything, according to the box.”
Kaiden watches me ramble. “Tea sounds good.”
I escape to the kitchen, which isn't really an escape since it's the other side of the same room. Filling the kettle. Finding mugs. Pretending I'm not hyperaware of the half-naked man on my couch.
From here, I can see straight through to my bedroom. The door's open. Unmade bed, clothes thrown over the chair, stackof books on my nightstand. My whole messy, imperfect life on display.
I don't close the door. If Kai wants to be part of my life, he can see who I am.
“Your place is nice,” he says.
I look at the boxes I still haven't unpacked, the mismatched furniture, the prints I hung to brighten the space. “It's small.”
“It feels like you.”
He gets up, walks to the kitchenette table, picks up a book I left there, flips through a few pages. He looks at ease. Like he belongs here.
Our eyes meet. I turn away, cheeks burning. Without a word, he grabs his shirt from the couch, slips it on, leaves it unbuttoned. Settles back into the cushions, protecting his shoulder.
The kettle whistles. I pour two cups and let the bags steep while I gather my courage.
When I bring the mugs over, his eyes track my movement. I hand him one, settle onto the opposite end of the couch, tuck my feet under me.
“Thank you,” he says, and he's not talking about the tea.
“You scared me.” It comes out before I can stop it. “When you called, I thought...”
“I know.” He sets the mug down, reaches for me, fingers brushing my knee. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have worried you.”
“You should have gone to a hospital.”
“I wanted to come here.”
Simple. Devastating.
“Why?” I need to understand. Need to know if this is real or if I'm building castles in sand again.
His thumb traces circles on my knee. “Because you make me feel like I can breathe. When everything else is chaos, you're the thing that makes sense.”
“You barely know me,” I whisper.
