She just stares, so I pick up a green marker, remove the cap, and hand it to her. “Come on, color them in, pumpkin.”
She takes her first deep breath and grabs the top of the green marker to close it. I am ready to tell her she should do as I say when she takes the orange marker from her lap. I huff a laugh against her hair.
Of course, she doesn’t just obey, not even while having a panic attack.
She pulls my left arm closer, and the marker glides over the bear tattooed on my inner forearm. It’s a big brown bear standing on his hind feet, growling, looking grumpy as fuck. But she colors the fucker orange, so he doesn’t look so intimidating anymore.
I chuckle, planting a kiss on her head. “Orange, really?”
“There was no brown,” she shrugs, seemingly concentrating on coloring and breathing.
“But orange?” My laugh stirs some of her hair.
“You keep calling me ‘pumpkin.’ Pumpkins are orange. Shut it, or I’ll think you don’t like me either,” she states, and I am glad the sass is back in her tone.
“I don’t,” I reply, causing her to stop her coloring and gaze up at me, a hint of hurt in her eyes, her brows pinching. “I don’t just like you, Carolina…” I clarify, gently cradling her face, “… I love you.”
Her breath hitches, and I lean in to kiss her slightly parted lips. Admitting that to her so abruptly wasn’t the plan, but today made me realize that losing her would be just as devastating as the thought of losing Clay—the standard for love in my life since childhood.
I pull back slightly, a smirk playing on my lips as I see her surprised face. I grab her chin with my thumb and forefinger, tilting her head to me, and tell her, “Now say, ‘I love you too, Xander.’”
“I love you too, Xander,” she murmurs, adjusting herself to straddle me and pulling me down for another kiss.
Our lips meet, the kiss unhurried and tender. It’s fascinating how different it feels kissing her compared to Clay. With Clay, it’s like a raging bonfire, fiery and intense with unpredictable sparks. But with her, it’s a different kind of warmth, like thegentle flame of a candle—soft, but there is no doubt that it could burn a house down.
I pull back to kiss her forehead, whispering against her skin. “Mine.” I hug her tighter. “I need your soul pressed against mine.”
Her hand drifts up my chest between us, settling over my right pec. “I’m right here,” she murmurs.
I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She catches sight of the arm she just colored, tugging it closer to her. With her fingers, she traces the newly orange bear.
“Why a bear?” she asks, curiosity lacing her voice. “I mean, I can see why Clay’s got lions. Fits him. He is a Leo for sure,” she adds with an eye roll.
I laugh. “True, August eighteenth.”
“Fuck, I should know that.” Searching for words, she asks, “When is…”
I cut in. “Sophia’s birthday is December fifth, but you knew that. Josh’s is September twenty-first. And mine? July sixteenth.”
She cocks her head. “So, a cancer, not a bear?”
I laugh softly. “Not a bear.” I gently shift her so she’s resting against my chest with her back again. “I haven’t shared this in ages,” I admit softly.
My hands wander down to the back of her thighs, squeezing them.
I need my emotional support thighs for this.
“You don’t have to,” she murmurs, stroking my upper arm.
“You’d understand better than anyone. It’s one of the reasons I love you,” I whisper into her hair, and she tightens her grip on my arm.
Taking a deep breath, I begin, “Life seemed pretty okay till I was about six, then my mom left us. I have a few good memories of her, but they’re blurry.” She traces shapes on my arm as Ispeak, keeping me grounded. “My father… he was messed up. I didn’t get it as a kid, but looking back, my mom always seemed to be hurt, always covered in bruises.” My jaw tightens, remembering days when we’d stay inside because of her visible injuries. “After she was gone, he turned on me. Said a real man needs to handle pain and would beat me down. Said it would make me strong.”
Her breath catches. “But you were just a little boy.”
“He’d take a blade to my skin, warning me not to scream, saying it would teach me to bear pain. Every time I couldn’t help it, every time I let out a cry, he’d make another cut.” Carolina’s nails dig into my arm, and I know she’s trying hard not to interrupt, letting me share at my own pace. “He worked construction, we barely scraped by, and most of what he earned, he drowned in booze. As the years went by, he just got more brutal. When I was twelve, I had a growth spurt and outgrew my old clothes. Instead of getting new ones, he said I should make do. It was around that time that Clay’s mom noticed.
“I remember I was hanging out at Clay’s. It was my refuge. I got up from the couch, my too-small shirt lifted, revealing all the scars on my stomach, both fresh and old.” The memory makes my heart hurt. “Clay’s mom pulled me aside and made it clear she wasn’t gonna let me go back there. God, I miss her,” I say, feeling the weight of gratitude for that incredible woman. “She marched right over to my father’s place and, not long after, came out carrying my stuff. Told me I was living with them from then on. Their place was small, just two bedrooms, but Clay and I never minded sharing. It felt safe. It felt right. I’d see my father across the street every so often, but after that, I never said another word to him again.”
