I slide closer behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.
For a split second, he goes rigid again.
Then he exhales.
“You don’t have to do that,” he mutters.
“I know.”
But I don’t let go.
He covers my hands with one of his.
His skin is still warm, but his pulse is racing.
“I don’t like not being in control,” he says after a moment.
“I noticed.”
A faint, humorless huff escapes him.
“I could’ve hurt you.”
“You didn’t.”
“That’s not the point.”
I rest my cheek against his back.
“You’re not the only one with ghosts,” I say quietly.
He turns his head slightly, enough to look at me over his shoulder.
“My mother used to bring men home,” I continue. “I’d lock my bedroom door and listen to them argue. Sometimes I’d think one of them would break it down.”
His expression shifts.
“That never happened,” I add. “But the fear did. And sometimes I still wake up thinking I hear footsteps.”
The admission feels raw.
But I don’t regret it.
“We’re not our worst moments,” I say softly.
He studies me like he’s trying to decide if I believe that.
“Why aren’t you scared of me?” he asks.
I think about it.
I think about the club.
About his voice.
About the way he carried me.
“I am,” I admit.
