The dark circles under Trips’ eyes tell me he’s up whether or not I’m with him, and for the millionth time this week, I wish things had happened differently.
But they didn’t. And here we are.
RJ sets me loose to get some water, and I know this is the end of my reprieve. Now we have to figure out how to not have me panic when cornered. Or at least, not panic so badly that I pass out. That’s the opposite of defending yourself.
“So, I have an idea,” he says once it’s clear I’m done hydrating my poor hungover body.
“Love it. Tell me.”
“Tickling.”
I burst out laughing. “What?”
“When I’m chasing you, my goal is to tickle you, not grab you, not to pin you. Maybe that’ll let you practice instead of freezing.”
Trips huffs out a breath, and I turn to him. “Do you have a thought to share with the room?” I ask, both annoyed at the interruption and glad for his participation.
My mind and heart are all messed up right now.
“I just had an image of some asshole grabbing you, and then you giggling while you kicked him in the balls.”
I can’t help the snort that escapes, RJ stuck in the same begrudging chuckle. “Well, it’d freak them out doubly,” I say.
“I’d be extra careful around a woman who’s gleefully kicking balls, that’s for sure,” he agrees, and for a moment, it almost feels normal.
But then the mirth fades, and we’re still a collection of people with hurts and fears that make it impossible to be at ease with each other.
“So, we’re tickle fighting,” I say, pushing myself to my feet and moving to the center of the room.
RJ smirks, then, without warning, sprints after me. I shriek, dashing away, yelling the first thing that pops into my head, my dad’s training apparently taking precedence over everything RJ’s taught me. “You’re not my mom! You’re not my dad!”
This has both guys laughing, my own choked laughter making me almost trip and face plant before RJ’s on me, tickle hands out. And this time, giggling so hard my legs are half jelly, I pop my knee up into his waiting palms, then pantomime going for his eyes as he fakes falling forward.
And there’s no panic. Not an ounce. Just a case of the giggles.
We do it a few more times, each time a bit more serious, and by the time sweat is dripping down my back, RJ stops, a soft smile on his face. “Are you ready for the next step? I think you are, but how are you feeling?”
Not caring about how sweaty we both are, I wrap my arms around him, pressing my cheek to his chest. He holds me tight, something about the intensity of it starting a flutter of fear the exercise has been missing. “I love you,” I mutter against his shirt, and he presses his lips to my head.
“Same,” he says, and my heart takes flight.
It’s not the words, not yet, but for RJ, this is big. He could hardly even talk to me a few months ago. Being so vulnerable has to be nearly impossible. But he’s working on it, for me.
Our breathing matches for a moment, both of us sighing into the hug before he steps back, his gaze still soft, but lined with the intention to teach me more. Keeping me safe to the best of his ability.
“Trips?” he calls, his lips pressing tight, like he doesn’t like the taste of Trips’ name on his tongue.
“Yeah?”
“I need you to do what I just did.”
He pushes to his feet, kicking off his shoes and socks, then comes over to us. “Why?”
“You’re bigger.”
My heart skips a beat. “You want him to loom?”
“Yup. Do you think you can start there, or should you start with tickling again?”
