She really had loved him. More than she’d loved her father, who she’d barely known when he died. More than her mother, who abandoned her daughter in her grief and depression, self-medicating withnarcotics rather than supporting her child. More than her cousin, Stefan, who had been the most constant relationship in her life, until she moved to Australia.
“He deserved so much better. He deserved a sister who cared enough to protect him,” she mumbled when her story came to an end. Her tears dripped onto my arm, and I was caught between wishing I hadn’t asked, hadn’t made her relive this pain, and a feeling of intense pride that she trusted me enough to share.
“Youdidprotect him, so many times,” I countered, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You advocated for him when you were barely older than him yourself, and when no adults were doing so. You showed him more care and compassion than all the other people in his life combined.”
“But that night, I prioritised my own needs over his,” she argued, sniffling. “And he died.”
“What happened to him was not your fault, Ri. And you shouldn’t hold your child-self responsible for the evil deeds of the adults around you.” Adults who had failed her on so many levels, over and over again.
“I know,” she mumbled, nestling in closer to me. “Deep down, I know you’re right. But it’s hard not to blame myself when I knew I was the only one who would help him, and I didn’t.”
I thought about a little girl version of Ri, cowering in her bed when she heard the footsteps of her uncle, paralysed with fear that he was coming for her, and the surge of protectiveness that overcame me almost stole my breath. I tightened my arms around her.
“At what point do you get to help yourself, Catnip?” I asked, voice rough with emotion. “When do you get to prioritiseyourwellbeing? When doyouget to feel safe?”
She lifted her head, resting her chin on my chest, eyes glistening but no longer shedding tears. “I do feel safe. When I’m here with you … like this. I don’t think I’ve ever really understood what safe felt like … before you.”
I opened my mouth, but no words could make their way out past the expanding heat in my chest.
“Why do you call me Catnip?” she asked suddenly. “I mean, is there a reason, aside from the obvious?”
I was grateful for the sudden change of subject, even as my brain scrambled to switch gears.
“Well,” I began, smiling wryly as I remembered the first time I’d thought of her as such. “It was actually Abernathy that inspired me, more thanThe Hunger Games. He was so drawn to you … the way a cat is drawn to catnip.”
“So … you let your cat nickname me?” she asked, a teasing lilt to her voice. My face warmed.
“Let’s be honest; Abernathy isyoursnow. The cat distribution system works in unusual ways. But I very quickly realised that you weren’t just enticing to him … you were to me, as well.”
A pink flush stained her cheeks, and I swiped my thumb over it with a grin. “I’m getting better at making you blush, Catnip.”
She smiled wryly. “When you talk like that about me—to me—I can barely think straight. My brain turns to soup, and I just want to …”
She braced herself on the bed and pushed up to mould her mouth to mine. I wasn’t about to complain that she hadn’t finished her sentence, because in the months since we’d first met, I’d missed so many opportunities to kiss her. Not in the performative, public spaces, but in quiet, private moments. And now I wasn’t going to deny myself the joy of her lips.
It was a sweet, gentle kiss, and even as her mouth moved against mine, she made no move to turn it into something more. I met her energy, needing to feel this softness with her, this sweetness and affection, as much as I’d needed the hungry kisses we’d shared earlier.
I wanted all the different kinds of kisses with this woman.
Even the ones where she broke away to yawn, and my heart lurched with joy because I didn’t have to leave the bed. Because the rule no longer applied.
We probably needed to discuss what that meant, but as I reached over and switched off Ri’s light and tugged her into my arms under the covers, I decided that it was a conversation that future Henry could worry about.
Right now, I was going to hold her as we both fell asleep.
I awoke to a warm backside tucked against my groin and soft snores still emitting from the woman it belonged to.
My woman. My wife.
I basked in that thought, in the heat of her body, in the dim light that filtered through the blinds. Her hair was a curtain of silk, and I ran my fingers through it.
The last time I’d woken up in a bed with her, I’d panicked and slipped away, making myself a coffee and pondering the stupidity of my actions. Because if I’d thought it was hard to stay professionally distant around herbeforeI’d been inside her, it had become a thousand times worse the morning after the first utterly life-changing sex I’d ever experienced.
I smiled, burying my nose in her hair and inhaling the summer scent of her. There was no need for panic now. No need to pretend this wasn’t exactly where I wanted to wake up. This morning … and every morning.
Although, perhaps admitting I had fantasies of forever might be a little premature? I didn’t want to scare her off, didn’t want her to feel like I’d engineered this outcome from the start. She’d had enough experience with a manipulative partner in the past, the last thing I wanted was to make her feel trapped.
She stirred in my arms, wiggling against me. I let out a soft, tortured sound, and she rolled over, rubbing her eyes and grinning lazily at me.
