His throat moved again, his eyes glimmering with panic. “And if I don’t let you in?”
A single tear landed on my cheek. “Then what we had is done,” I answered. “You’ve installed security cameras and have access to the feed. There’s no need for you to be here any longer.”I paused, throat constricting. “I can’t live in a lie anymore, Superman. That includes yours.”
Perhaps it was due to my relationship history. I expected an outburst. A thrown lamp, a few cuss words, sprinkled throughout his insults. When none of those things happened, I realized that he was, indeed, perfect.
Just not quite healed.
“We have to let go of the lies we lived if this is going to work.” He quoted my words, both a plea and revelation I’d whispered to him when our bodies were one.
“Yes,” I rasped.
“You think I’m perfect,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with doubt and self-hatred.
“My definition of perfect isn’t different from the dictionary’s,” I confessed.
His eyes scanned over me again, from head to toe. “Before I met you, I had a vision of who the woman I wanted was supposed to be. What she looked like, how she acted, who she was in her heart. I’d conjured up this standard for myself. I was chasing perfection, because that’s who I needed to be in order to survive.” He ran a hand over his jaw, his eyes narrowing as they landed on my shoes. He removed his hand slowly and gestured toward the couch with a quiet sigh. “Know you love your Docs, baby, but I also know they hurt your feet after a few hours of wear. Come sit down.”
“But—”
“The thought of you in any discomfort kills me inside.” He cut me off. “I can’t focus. Please, sit.”
I hesitated, the silent question hanging above us.
He tipped his head to the couch. “Told you I was never leaving you again,” he reminded me, putting his hands in his pockets. “Now sit.”
The order was firm but gentle. All Hayes. All warmth. Gone was the tortured animal, the stranger who’d left me in bed earlier.
I moved to the couch, taking a seat on the armrest. My feet thanked me as I toed them off and crossed my ankles, each shoe hitting my floorboards with a heavythunk. He watched it all, drinking everything in. I folded my hands in my lap, looking at him. “There.”
His eyes flicked to the shoes before he came to me, silent, and nabbed them off the floor, along with my coat. I watched, holding my breath, as he straightened up the space. When he finally came to stand in front of me again, his eyes were still dark, but the trees were returning.
A small comfort. Proof that I hadn’t pushed him too hard.
He spoke again, his words jarring me, as they were the last thing I expected. “Your messes are something I should hate.”
My tongue pressed to the roof of my mouth, my mind unsure of how to take that. His voice was gentle. His body was rigid, eyes alert, hands on his hips. Everything about his body language was screaming at me that he was disappointed in my clutter, but his eyes were merciful. “I’m not a dirty person,” I noted, picking at the hangnail on my thumb. “I just—I have a lot of stuff.”
“I know.”
I waited for him to give me more, and when he didn’t, I leaned forward expectantly. “I take it this woman you envisioned wasn’t unorganized?”
“No, she was not. She was just as clean as me.”
I tilted my head to the side, my hair shifting, falling over my shoulder. I didn’t miss the way his eyes tracked the movement, the subtle twitch in his cheek or the shifting of his weight.
“Why do you look confused?” he asked, brow furrowing. “You’ve been to my apartment.”
“Yes, but it isn’t clean—”
“What the—yes, it is.” He cut me off.
“Barren is not the same thing as clean,” I educated him. He stared at me. I took a breath and continued. “Your homeisbarren—and no, I don’t think you’re trying to follow the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic. I think you’re just too afraid to settle anywhere, to allow yourself to want things in your life because for some reason, you think you don’t deserve them.”
His throat bobbed, his hands falling from his hips, arms now hanging limply at his sides as his chest expanded, inhaling a breath of disbelief. “Fucking Christ,” he muttered, closing his eyes, hiding from me.
I didn’t move. Not because I didn’t want to, but because he needed to take and accept this realization on his own.
“I think,” I began again, softer this time. “I think the difference between you and me, Superman, is this: Even though a part of me didn’t think I deserved nice things, I went after them anyway. Because after escaping the hell I was born into, I would be damned if I didn’t experience a little bit of life.”
