He startles when he sees me. “Ash.” He exhales, like he’s been holding his breath. “I was about to come looking for you.”
Tension sits in the lines around his eyes, the set of his mouth. But when he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms, I feel the same solid warmth I always have.
I press my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “Everything okay?”
His hand skims down my back. “Right now? It’s perfect.”
For a year now, I’ve wanted him to tell me everything that was going on, but…
Suddenly, I don’t know if I’m ready.
Before I can decide whether to push, his phone starts ringing again. Beckett doesn’t move.
“Don’t you need to get that?” I ask.
He loosens his hold on me and looks at the screen for a long moment. “No,” he says.
He clicks it off.
And then—without hesitation—he turns, slides the balcony door open, steps out into the night, and with one clean, furious motion?—
Throws the phone into the darkness.
“Beckett!” I gasp, rushing after him. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t say a word, just stands there, hands braced on the railing, head bowed. Then he shakes it once and drags a hand through his hair, hard.
The ocean rushes below us, black and endless. The wind tugs at his shirt, ruffles his hair. When he finally turns back to me, his face is stripped bare—anger, frustration, grief, all of it right there.
“No more interruptions,” he says hoarsely. “Not tonight.”
I step out onto the balcony, the cool air brushing my bare arms. He’s leaning back against the railing now, eyes bright, chest rising and falling too fast.
“Ash,” he says. “You asked if I’m in trouble and… last year, I fucked up.”
My stomach drops. That’s exactly what I didn’t want to hear, what I feared this was. What I didn’t want to believe.
“I’m trying to make it right,” he continues. “That’s what I’ve been doing. What I wanted to tell you. I will tell you everything. I just?—”
He breaks off.
And it’s all there. The strain. The way this year has carved lines into him the same way it carved into me.
“Ash—”
“It’s okay.” I nod. Because I don’t understand all the whys, or the whos or the whats. But I understand him. What he needs. For better or for worse. And I understand that, somehow, I love him now more than I ever have. I never stopped.
I step closer.
There’s a reason I never signed those papers shoved in a drawer back home.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell him.
A tear slips free before he can stop it. He lifts a hand to wipe it away, but I catch his wrist, press his knuckles to my mouth instead.
“I’ll wait,” I whisper.
I can’t stop loving this man. No matter what logic says. No matter what the self-help books say I’m supposed to do.
