He shifts beside me, his body curving around mine as his arm pulls me closer, tucking me against him.
“I got it for my mama,” he says quietly. “She loved roses. My brothers and I used to bring her a bouquet every day, especially near the end.”
The way he says it makes my throat close up. I can hear the grief in every word.
“And the quote?”
“She used to say our hearts were reminders that she was still with us. That if we missed her, we just needed to put a hand over our chest and listen. That beat?” He pauses. “That was her saying we were always loved.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes before I can stop them, and I bite down on my lip, trying to keep them in. But he knows. Somehow, Carter always fucking knows.
“Darlin’,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my temple, “don’t cry.”
I shake my head, pressing closer to him, hiding my face in his chest, letting his heartbeat drown out the ache curling deep in my stomach.
His hand finds mine, tangling our fingers together before he speaks again—quieter this time, like he’s afraid the truth will hurt.
“I know you probably don’t want to hear it. You don’t need me saying some shit you didn’t ask for. But I get it. The grief you carry—I understand it.”
The words knock the breath out of me.
“I fucking know how much it hurts,” he whispers, “to lose someone who built your whole world. Someone you still look for, even when you know they’re not coming back.”
I blink up at him, stunned silent. His face is shadowed in the glow of the lamp, but his eyes—God, those fucking eyes—they’re wide open. His walls are slowly crumbling forme.
His chest rises beneath my cheek, and for a moment, I think maybe he’s finished talking. That his walls will go back up, and whatever this quiet softness is between us will fade away and return to our usual bickering.
His voice breaks through the silence.
“After she died,” he murmurs, barely more than breath, “everything fucking changed.”
I stay still, holding my breath, not daring to move as he finally starts to bleed.
“I shut down,” he continues, “I stopped communicating, didn’t let anyone near me, besides my brothers. I just buried myself in work, my ranch, and my quiet life. Anything that hurt less than thinking about her.”
My heart aches for him, my hand presses gently against his chest, right over that steady, aching rhythm of his heart.
“My ex…” he starts, then hesitates, but continues, “she said she’d stay, told me that we’d get through it together. But when things got dark, and when I needed her the most, she looked at me like I was fucking worthless.”
I blink, caught off guard by the sharpness in his voice; less sadness now, more fury that still simmers under the surface.
“She said I was stuck,” he continues, “that the ranch was a dead end. That she wanted more, more than cows, filth, and grief she didn’t fucking understand.” His voice tightens, like he’s still choking on the words he never got to say when it mattered. “She wanted champagne, city lights, and luxury I couldn’t afford. Some big-shot lawyer from Nashville promised her all that, and she left. Packed a bag and walked out before we’d even buried my fucking mama.”
My breath catches as my fingers still where they’d been tracing lazy circles over his chest.
“She didn’t just leave,” he adds, quieter now. “She replaced me, and she made sure I fucking knew it. Like all the years we spent together didn’t mean shit.”
I press my forehead harder into his chest, and the lump in my throat becomes painful from swallowing.
“She kicked me while I was down,” he mutters, his hand curling tightly around my hip. “And I let her. I didn’t fight her and I sure as hell didn’t fucking beg her to stay. I just shut every goddamn door I had left.” He exhales harshly, like he’s been holding it all in for years.
“Since then,” he says, softer now, “I haven’t let anyone close. I haven’t touched anyone nor felt the need to be with someone.” He pauses again, his thumb brushing over the bare skin of my thigh. “Not until you.”
I swear my heart stutters, skipping its rhythmic beats like it doesn’t know how to handle the weight of what he’s giving me.
“I haven’t touched anyone in years,” he says as he wraps his hands around my waist. “Not the way I’ve touched you. Not with this kind of need, not with this kind ofcare.”
My hand finds his, tightening around his warm, calloused palm, and I finally lift my head to look at him.
