Slow footsteps echo behind me.
Please don’t let it be Nevin. God, please. Why have I said all that?
‘Wrong turn or are you looking for the ghost of Mary Queen of Scots?’ It’s Scottie’s voice.
Thank you, universe.
My lungs stop fighting me. It’s infuriating how fast my brain drops the panic simply because he is standing there. I focus on the grey mortar and hide the sigh of relief.
‘I needed a bit of air.’
‘Aye. Air’s important for an oxygen-dependent species.’ He leans against the opposite wall. He doesn’t wear his too-tight jacket anymore, his sleeves are rolled up.
His presence is grounding, a fixed point in a room that won’t stop spinning. I look up. He is leaning casually, but his wide forearms are locked in place. They’re thick and corded. I track the raised veins and the copper hair on his skin, scars on muscles that come from moving men against their will. Controlled fury.
How much did he hear?
‘Really, I’m fine.’ My voice breaks on the last word, making me sound as tiny as I feel.
Scottie stands there, solid as the stone around us. ‘You’re allowed to not be fine. You know that, aye?’
Hot tears gather in the corners of my eyes. ‘It’s…a lot. Tonight… Och, everything is just… But I’m fine, really.’
‘Ava.’ My name in his voice is a full stop. ‘You’re not fucking fine.’
The composure I’ve maintained for months is fracturing, and I can’t stop it. I curl inward, my shoulders dropping.
Scottie gives me every chance to pull away, to tell him to leave.
I don’t.
His hand rises, hovers near my face as if asking permission. Then his thumb brushes my cheekbone, his palm settles along my jaw, and his vast warmth is seeping through me.
‘You don’t have to be fine.’ His voice is husky and deep. ‘Not with me.’
My eyes fall shut, and I lean into the solidity of his palm without meaning to, hungry for stillness, for shelter, for the safety of being seen without being judged.
For him.
‘I’m here. I’m always here. You can talk to me if you want to. Or not. Won’t change a fucking thing. I’ll still be here. Always.’ He catches a stray tear with his thumb.
Then I’m in his arms.
I don’t even remember moving. Don’t remember deciding. But my face is pressed into his chest, my fingers clutch the fabric of his shirt, and his arms are wrapped around me. I melt against the wall that is his body. He doesn’t pull me closer just for the sake of proving he can. He stands there, leaving it up to me when to let go.
I press my face harder into the cotton of his shirt. I could fall apart here, and he wouldn’t shift an inch.
For the first time in ages, I feel held instead of handled.
His hand moves to my hair, strokes it, slow and soothing. His heart drums beneath my cheek, and the pain I’ve kept shoving down suddenly breaks free with a whimper.
He absorbs my shudder, holding tighter instead of pulling away.
And then all that’s left is the reality of being so close to him. How perfectly we fit together. The safety of his arms blurs and I feel his raw strength. His muscles. His hardness.
I want his mouth on mine. His weight on me. I want to know what sound he makes when he stops holding back.
Oh god. I want him.
