“You’re not throwing up,” I say, brushing my fingers along her back.“You’re staying right here.”
Her whole body is trembling. I try to ground her with words, even though its hard for me to fucking communicate.
“Okay, talk to me. Tell me your favorite movie, baby.”
She groans against my chest. “I don’t know. I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying.” I brush my hand over her back in slow, even strokes. “You’re just freaking out. So give me an answer.”
She lifts her head just enough to glare at me. “It’sJohn Tucker Must DieandThe Conjuring, which says a lot about me psychologically.”
I smile, pulling her closer. “It really does.”
She lets out a watery laugh and then immediately chokes on another sob.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this again. I don’t want you to think I’m some burden.”
“You’re not a fucking burden,” I say, cradling her face gently in both hands, my thumbs brushing along her cheeks. “If anyone in your life has ever made you feel like your feelings made you hard to love, I’ll break their fucking face.”
She blinks as tears escape her eyes.
“You called me baby,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Why?”
My thumbs brush along her cheekbones. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her so bad it physically hurts. But I’m not just desperate for her mouth, I’m desperate for hertrust.
“Because that’s what you are to me,” I say quietly, “even if it doesn’t seem like it.”
And then I do what I’ve been dying to do since she climbed into my lap like she belonged there. I kiss her.
My mouth meets hers with the kind of aching patience that feels fucking ages since I kissed her last. I kiss her like I’m learning the shape of her soul, like every brush of my lips is a promise to not let her break.
She sighs into me, her fingers clutch the front of my flannel like she needs something to anchor her, like she’s afraid she’ll come undone if she doesn’t hold on.
I slide my hand down to her waist, my fingers curling around her like I can’t hold her close enough. Her hips tilt forward, barely brushing mine, and the smallest roll of her body sends a low, guttural sound tearing from my chest—one I didn’t mean to let out.
Shit.
I break the kiss with a gasp, pressing my forehead to hers, breathing her in like she’s oxygen and I’ve spent years choking.
Her lips are pink and swollen, her fingers still tangled in my shirt.
“I’m scared,” she says.
“Me too.”
Her eyes search mine. “What do we do now?”
I slide my hand up her back as my fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie.
“We stay right here,” I whisper, brushing my mouth against hers again, softer this time. “Until the storm calms down. Outside and in your head.”
carter
. . .
