He's kept so much separate from me, integrating into my world easily, but locking me out of his. I feel the weight of it, of being here, of sharing this, despite everything that's happened.
I'm drifting toward some photographs on the wall when he strides in, his face tight and arms full of supplies. Towels, clothes, a first aid kit, camping lanterns. He practically dumps them next to me, grabs a towel, but then he takes my hands so he can inspect my arms. I inspect him while he does, noting how rough he looks. His beard less groomed, his eyes hollowed like he's exhausted. Still, he's the most gorgeous man I've ever seen.
My heart breaks fresh.
"Jesus," he breathes. "You're shaking. Come here."
He unfurls the towel, which is huge and fluffy and warm, then wraps me up and pulls me into him, holding me to him with strong, safe arms. Beneath my cheek, his heart hammers, his body trembling.
"You're cold," I whisper.
"I'm fine."
"But you're shaking too." I try to shift so I can get him a towel, but his arms lock.
"I'm not cold," he says simply, just holding me.
The silence is thick and heavy, loaded with all the things we haven't said, all the hurt from the last week. I close my eyes, draw a shuddering breath, tears stinging. I missed him. I missed him so much, just being here in his arms is tearing me apart. I feel the longing in him as if he confessed out loud that his misery matches mine. I want to look at him, but I'm afraid of what I'll find.
When he lets me go, I have to stop myself from lungeing back into him. But he hands me a bundle of clothes.
"Go change, peaches," he says quietly, turning me toward the back of the house. "Bathroom's down there on the right."
I take the bundle with a nod and head that way, the heat of his body clinging to me like the ghost of something I can't keep.
Being without him was agony. But being this close might be worse.
CHAPTER 32
TWO THINGS FOR CERTAIN
MOLLY
The rain rushes on outside as I step into the bathroom and close the door. It's dark, but there's a skylight and a decent sized window, enough light that I can change without issue into a pair of his boxer briefs and a tee. I have to flip the band of his undies, but they stay put. His University of Tennessee baseball shirt hits me mid-thigh and smells so much like him that I bundle up the front of it and bury my nose in the fabric, inhaling so deep, my eyes roll back, then sting with tears.
God, I missed him so much.
I sigh, pick up the towel using it to dry myself off a little more, my hair second to last, then with his tee. When I wipe off my glasses with his tee,I’m thankful to be able to see again, even if I can't see much.
When I exit, he's sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch with his first aid kit. A camping lantern sits next to him, putting him inside a little island of light in the darkness. He's in a tee and sweatpants, his hair tousled, still wet but no longer dripping. He looks up, stilling when he sees me, his gazetraveling down my body. I wonder if he likes the sight of me in his clothes as much as I love being in them. But he looks away before I can divine the answer.
"Come here. Let me clean you up."
I make my way to him, sit on the couch across from him as he takes my hand silently. Half of his face is in the light, the other half in shadows.
He begins to work, and for a moment, we're silent.
"I missed you," he says. The words are so soft, I barely hear them.
My heart jolts, emotion webbing across my skin, up my neck to sting my nose and eyes. On my worst days, I didn't think he missed me at all. But deep down, I hoped he did.
No, I knew he did.
"I missed you too," I whisper.
Neither of us speak.
I watch him work, occasionally hissing from the sting. He doesn't look up from his task. Even when his hand pauses and he cups my forearm, thumbing a shallow cut as he speaks.
