Page 82 of Break My Heart

Leo is asleep beside me. His breathing is even, his body relaxed in a way I haven’t ever seen, as if he finally let go of every weight he’d been carrying by himself.

I shift slightly, laying my head on his chest. My gaze is drawn to the window. I stare out the glass, taking the time to reconcile my mind with everything my heart has already decided.

There is no logic to it, and perhaps that is the beauty—finding serenity with each other amid chaos. Maybe it’s as simple as us being two people who find the only place meant for us to belong is in each other’s arms. Somehow, despite everything, he is the one my heart keeps choosing. It’s not because of grand gestures or impossible chemistry. Nor is it because loving him is easy.

We’re committing to each other and to building something honest, where trust has to be earned—piece by piece. Somewhere between the gala and last night, the bruise on my heart has eased.

With that, I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

29

LIFT AND COAST: EASING OFF THROTTLE EARLY TO SAVE FUEL/TIRES

Iwake up before she does, which is unusual since, for most of my life, waking has been something I’ve endured. A daily reminder that I was invisible in a life I wanted desperately to escape from.

After last night with Christin, though? Morning brings something much more profound than dread. I feel small tendrils of hope.

The light filtering through the curtains is soft. Barcelona is already warming into the day—the faint hum of the city rising somewhere far below. For a second, I don’t move. I just lie there, holding Christin close while letting the reality of yesterday settle in properly.

The win. Her. Us.

Then I turn my head to study the gift I’ve been given: her lying in my arms.

Christin is tucked up next to me. In her sleep, one arm is thrown over my chest and the other is wedged between us. Her hair—disheveled from having my hands buried in it all night long—spills across the white sheets in a way that’s completely at odds with the precision she carries herself everywhere else.

But what strikes me the hardest is there’s no tension in her face.

Just peace.

Something that’s been wound tight in my chest shifts long enough for me to accept that I never again want to be the kind of man she walks away from. Or, I think with a smile, in our case, the man she throws out.

She stirs, brow furrowing before her eyes squint open. She immediately hisses at the light. For a moment, there’s a flicker of disorientation in her expression—like she’s placing where she is and whose arms she’s in.

Then her gaze lands on me. I get the pleasure of watching as the disorientation I just witnessed shifts into a soft smile meant for me.

“Good morning,” I say quietly, tugging her closer.

Her voice is still rough with sleep when she murmurs, “This is earlier than you prefer to function.”

A breath of laughter leaves me before I can stop it. “I’m evolving.”

“Or malfunctioning.”

“Possibly.”

She tips her head back so she can study me at length. Something thoughtful settles into her expression.

“I—” I start, then stop because I don’t want to get this wrong. “Last night meant everything to me. But I don’t expect you to feel the same. I want you to have time to think about it without worrying about how I feel.”

“That sentence is packed with too many different emotions before coffee.”

Silence settles between us, but it’s not empty. My voice breaks when I murmur, “I meant what I said. Yesterday. About trusting you. About us.”

Her gaze softens slightly at that. “‘Us’ did a lot of work last night.”

I grin lazily. “Us did.”

“And you’re comfortable with me making emotional decisions after a night with little sleep?” she teases.