My throat burns. “How old were you?”
“I was nine when my mom left me at my aunt’s place.” His voice lowers. “Twelve when she died.”
Nine. I picture a young boy with messy blond hair and anger in his eyes, standing on someone’s porch, unwelcome in his new home.
He moves slightly behind me.
“I cried that day,” he says quietly. “When my mom dropped me off. I remember screaming, begging her not to leave.” His arm tightens around me again. “My aunt told me to shut the fuck up. Said no one wanted to hear that shit.”
I blink back tears, staring at the wall in front of us as everything he just said rearranges itself inside my chest.
Of course, now I understand why he shuts people out.
No one ever stayed for him.
No one ever stood between him and the darkest parts of the world. No one ever told him he mattered enough to fight for. A nine-year-old boy crying on a doorstep. A twelve-year-oldhearing his mother was gone and being told it would be better if he went too.
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
“What about your dad?” I whisper.
“Never met him. I don’t even know his name.”
“Jace—”
“It’s fine,” he says, voice flat. “Not like I missed out or anything. You have to know them to miss out.”
I turn in his arms slowly, shifting until I face him. His hand moves from my stomach to my waist. We’re close now, so close I can feel the heat of his breath against my lips.
His face is inches from mine.
And my heart is stuck somewhere in my throat.
“You did miss out,” I say quietly. “You missed out on being protected. On someone telling you that you were worth sticking around for.”
I raise my hand slowly, allowing him time to pull back.
He doesn’t.
My fingertips gently brush his cheek.
His skin is warm. There’s a slight roughness, the kind that shows he doesn’t bother with skincare routines or softening his edges.
“You don’t have to try and fix me, Bells,” he says quietly.
“I’m not trying to,” I whisper. “I just... see you.”
I feel the shift in him before I see it. His throat moves when he swallows. His grip on my waist tightens just a fraction.
His eyes fall to my mouth. Then they lift back to mine, something exposed flickering there. Something that seems dangerously close to hope.
“Can I ask you something?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” His voice is lower now.
“It’s kind of personal.”
He huffs out a quiet breath. There’s a ghost of a smile threatening but not quite landing. “Just say it, Bells. You’ve never had a problem asking anything before.”
