Page 107 of The Most Perfect Wrong

“I don’t have anything.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, raw and defeated.

I rub her back, shutting my eyes for a moment.What the hell did he do?“Okay, let’s go in.” I take her hand, holding it tightly. She needs to know she’s safe here—that I’m safe.

We head up the two flights of stairs to my bedroom, where I brought her suitcase up from earlier. Damn. She’s been living out of that same bag since before Christmas. It’s mid-Januarynow, and I know she was looking forward to grabbing more of her clothes for work.

She immediately starts rummaging through the suitcase, pulling out toiletries. I grip the back of my neck, trying to read her. “You know, I probably should’ve asked—do you want your own space? I can set you up in one of the guest rooms if you’d prefer.”

She stops rummaging, her brows knitting together as her eyes lock on mine. “Wherever you are, is where I want to be.” She stands, walking over to me, placing her hands on my chest. “Of course I want to stay with you.”

I cradle her face, my thumb brushing softly over her cheek. “What happened?”

She hesitates, her voice flat and distant. “Brad was there. I told him we were done. He said some really nasty things.” Her gaze drifts away, and my chest tightens at how detached she seems—like she’s left her body, and all that’s left is this shell.

“He threatened me, broke some things…” She swallows hard. “And then I left.”

My jaw tightens. “Wait, he threatened you? What did he say, Cooper?”

She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” I say firmly, my voice rising. “Yes, it fucking matters.”

Her eyes meet mine, desperate for escape. “He had our text thread from Christmas Day printed out. You know… when we…”

“I know which one,” I say softly, my voice gentle, hoping to ease her tension. “I remember.”

She nods, her gaze falling to the floor. “He said he’d send them to our work… to your boss.”

“Coop, you know I wouldn’t give a shit if he sent those, right? God, you have to know that.”

She nods faintly. “I’m really tired,” she murmurs, staring into the distance. “Can we talk about this later? I just… I need to rest… to process everything.”

“Of course,” I say softly, rubbing her shoulders. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Thank you, Ry.” Her eyes flutter shut for a moment before she adds, “I think I’d like to take a shower. Do you mind? You don’t need to wait up. I know it’s late.”

“Not at all. Take your time, babe.” I kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment before letting her go. I watch as she gathers her things and heads into the bathroom, the door clicking softly behind her.

After waiting anxiously on the bed for twenty minutes, the water’s still running. There’s no way in hell I’m sleeping without her right now. Plus, I need to brush my teeth.

I drag my hands over my face, frustration simmering. I wish Leo were here to give me some damn advice. Do I go in? Wait it out? Try to get her to talk, or let her be? Fuck, I’m not a therapist—I’ve never dealt with anything like this.

I tap on the door, loud enough for her to hear, then slip inside.

“Hey, just need to brush my teeth,” I say, gesturing to the sink. I glance at her briefly but keep my focus on the task, giving her space.

I can feel her gaze on me the entire time. When I finally turn, I’m met with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s facing me, her back to the shower head. The tiled wall transitions to glass, framing her upper body.

I can’t help but stare. Yes, her glorious tits are bare, but I’m not even looking at them. I notice them—but that’s not what grips me. It’s her face. Sad, raw, beautiful. Her bloodshot eyes tell me everything: she’s been crying this whole time. Even through the shower’s steam, I can see the tears streaking herface. She looks hollow, a ghost of herself. A fierce need to hold her—to protect her—takes over me.

I pull my shirt over my head and step out of my pants, leaving only my boxer briefs. I need her to know this isn’t about sex. I walk to the shower, open the door, and step inside, never breaking eye contact.

When I reach her, I wrap my arms around her, and she melts into me. I press a kiss to her forehead, then gently tilt her chin up and kiss the tears from her cheeks. More follow, and her lips gravitate toward mine, brushing softly. I let her take the lead, offering only comfort, not pressure.

Her lips press into mine, soft and slow. Her arms slide around my neck, and it’s like something awakens in her—as if she’s been drowning, and I’m the air she desperately needs. Her kiss deepens, filled with fervor, slow but purposeful.

I match her intensity, cradling her head with one hand, pouring every ounce of care I have into the kiss, as if I could somehow draw out her pain. My lips trail to her jaw, her neck, and when a sob escapes her, I pull her back to me, capturing her mouth again.

We kiss in silence for what feels like an eternity, with only the sound of water hitting our skin and the tiles below.

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