“I should’ve answered your fucking calls.”
The words sound like they’re tearing their way out of his chest.
“I was being an asshole,” he continues, shaking his head slightly. “Thought you were calling to argue.”
My chest tightens.
His thumb presses hard against my hand like he’s grounding himself.
“I should’ve been there,” he says quietly. “Before he ever got inside your house.”
My throat aches, but something deeper aches more hearing the guilt in his voice.
“Hawk—”
“I should’ve been there,” he repeats, his voice cracking slightly. “You shouldn’t have had to fight him alone.”
His eyes finally lift back to mine.
And the raw emotion in them steals the air from my lungs.
“I’m sorry, Emma,” he says again, softer this time. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
My heart twists painfully.
Slowly, carefully, I lift my free hand.
Every movement sends pain through my ribs, but I manage to reach him.
My fingers brush his wrist.
Then I gently pull his hand closer.
Resting my cheek against it.
His skin is warm.
Rough.
Familiar.
“It’s okay,” I whisper hoarsely.
His brows pull together immediately.
“No, it’s not—”
“It is,” I interrupt softly.
My throat burns with every word but I force them out anyway.
“I shouldn’t have left.”
Hawk goes still.
“I was mad,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”
His jaw tightens.
