"I noticed that. You're incredibly stubborn."
"Keep noticing it. Remind yourself every time you think I'm going to leave how damn stubborn I can be."
I close my eyes. The craving for a drink is still there, a dull ache in the back of my skull, a constant itch I can't scratch. The fear is still there too, whispering that this can't last, that I'm going to ruin it.
But Ivan is here. His heartbeat is steady under my ear. And for right now, in this moment, that's enough to keep me from falling apart.
Chapter 31: Ivan
I wake up before Jay. I don't move. I barely breathe. I just lie there and look at him, memorizing this moment.
God, he's gorgeous. Even with the fading bruises still visible on his face, yellow and green now instead of purple. Even with the dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights and too much worry. His lips are slightly parted as he breathes, and I can see the small scar on his bottom lip from the bar fight starting to fade.
And he's mine. Somehow, impossibly, against all odds—he's mine. I feel a surge of something so intense it almost hurts, something that makes my chest feel too full and my throat tight. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper than that, something bigger. I spent years looking for this man and now he's lying in my arms, and I still can't quite process that this is my reality now.
But even as I watch him sleep, I can't shake what happened last night. The way he sat in that chair in the dark, shaking, his hands trembling, fighting the urge to reach for alcohol. The way he talked about himself like he was worthless.
There's so much healing that needs to happen. So much damage that can't be undone with a single weekend of sex and pizza and whispered promises in the dark. I knew he was struggling. The bar fight and whiskey bottle were evidence enough, but I don't think I understood until last night just how deep the wounds go, how close to the edge he's been living for so long.
I need to figure out how to help him. Not just when I'm here, but when I'm hours away, back at my life, unable to do anything but call and send texts that might not be enough.
We can video call every night. I'll set an alarm on my phone, make it a ritual, something he can count on. Something predictable and steady. And I'll text him throughout the day whenever I can. During lunch breaks, between jobs. I'll make sure he knows he's not alone, that I'm thinking about him. And I'll come back every weekend, no matter what.Even if I have to work overtime all week to make up for it, even if I have to drive through the night, I'll be here.
I'll figure it out. Whatever it takes. However long it takes.
But first, right now, I want to give him something good. Something that drowns out the bad, at least for a little while. I want to touch him and make him feel so loved that it starts to create new pathways in his brain. I want to fill his head with so many good memories that the bad ones start to fade into background noise instead of being the only song he knows.
I reach out slowly and brush a strand of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear. He stirs slightly, makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, but doesn't wake. I trace my finger down his cheek, feeling the rough stubble there, along his jaw, across his lips that are softer than they look.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, and then they find mine.
"Good morning," I say softly.
"Morning," he says, his eyes still hazy and warm. "How long have you been awake?"
"A while. Maybe twenty minutes. I was watching you sleep."
"That's creepy." But he's smiling.
"No, that's romantic. That's what people who are crazy about someone do."
He laughs, a quiet huff of air. "Same thing. Creepy and romantic are basically the same thing when you think about it."
I lean in and kiss him, soft and slow. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer. I could kiss him forever and never get tired of it.
When I pull back, his eyes are more awake. He's looking at me with an expression of awe.
"Are you okay?" I ask, stroking my thumb across his cheekbone. "After last night? After everything we talked about?"
"Yeah, I'm okay." He pauses, and I can see him considering whether to be honest or brush it off. "Better than I was. You being here helps more than you know. Makes everything feel less heavy."
"That's what I'm here for." I trace my finger along his collarbone, watching goosebumps rise on his skin even though the room is warm. "Is it really okay? Me touching you like this? As much as I want to? Because I want to touch you all the time and I don't want to be—I don't want to overwhelm you or make you feel like you have to—"
Jay takes my hand and presses it flat against his chest, right over his heart. I can feel it beating under my palm, strong and steady.
"Ivan," he says. "You never have to ask for permission to touch me. Not ever again. Touch me whenever you want, however you want. I'm yours. My body is yours. Everything I am is yours. Anything you want to try, I'm all up for it. Anything."
"You mean that? Really?"
