Page 85 of Flare

He chuckled. “I don’t intend to pass out on your couch on a regular basis, just so you know. Although I have to admit, being carried to bed by my mountain of a boyfriend definitely has its perks. For one thing, it puts your lips very close for kissing.” Which he did, several times.

Jack stood at the top of the stairs, wearing a stunned expression, and waved us past with a dramatic sweep of his arms. “You two are setting way too high a standard for the whole dating thing, you realise that? I’m not carrying any girl up a flight of stairs, I can tell you that now. Towels are on the chair, Rhys.”

By the time we made it to the guest room, my arms were on fire and I dropped him unceremoniously onto the bed. “Thank fuck for that.”

He laughed and immediately wriggled out of his clothes before quickly sliding under the covers wearing just a pair of—Fuck. Me.—red mesh briefs that hid nothing.

“Tease.” I pulled the curtains and tucked the duvet under his chin before kissing him goodnight.

He grabbed my face and looked me in the eye. “Thank you, for today.” He swept his lips once more over mine and then snuggled under the covers with a happy sigh, and I’d have bet my first edition Thomas HardyWessex Poemsthat he was asleep before I even left the room.

And if I stuck my head back through the door an hour later just to watch him sleeping for a bit, that was nobody’s business but my own.

* * *

Rhys

I woke with a start and a sharp stab of panic in my chest, but Jack’s laugh in the next room and the clatter of pans in the kitchen directly beneath my bed put a smile on my face. This was Beck’s place.

The roar of the central heating sprang to life and a blast of warm air hit me from the ceiling vent above the bed. I breathed the fear into submission and burrowed back under the duvet to drink in the very appealing notion that I’d just slept in Beck’s house, and then the startling realisation that I hadn’t woken, not once. It was rare for me to sleep through the night in my own bed, let alone someone else’s. But the mattress was warm and comfortable, the linen crisp, and the fluffy feather duvet possessed the optimal snuggle factor. And knowing Beck was just down the hall felt... safe.

A gap in the white linen curtains was just enough to bathe the room in pale morning light and I smiled in approval. Furnished in marine blue and white, with more of that bleached wood Beck seemed to love, and yet another floor-to-ceiling bookcase jammed with books of all shapes and sizes, the bedroom was cosy and comforting and just reeked of the man who lived here. Like a big enveloping hug.

I recognised the signs, hell they may as well have slapped me across the face this last week. My heart was walking dangerous ground.

I was in deep. Too deep for the six weeks we’d known each other. Too deep to be safe. And way too soon for Beck to have any real idea what he was getting into. He liked me, sure, but then we’d had few hiccups so far, other than that kiss outside the bar. And talking with Callum had brought an unwelcome reminder of what was really at stake and how difficult the journey might be.

When Beck and I started to push the boundaries of my rules, which we would—I’d been clear with Callum that was one of my goals—Callum had warned me of the risks. But my answer to his warning had surprised even me. I wasn’t content to hold the safe ground any longer. I wanted more, a lot more. Which meant crossing those safety lines and the inevitable blow back from my PTSD. It would come, nothing surer.

I pulled the sheet under my chin and thought of Callum’s cautionary words.

“This isn’t a race, Rhys. There’s no set timetable. No checkboxes to tick. There is only what feels right. None of what you’re feeling or dealing with is uncommon. Forcing yourself isn’t the answer. Withdrawing isn’t either. This is your process. You get to be in control and set the rules. But it works best as an active process, meaning you engage with it, rather than burying your feelings. You talk. We talk. And if you’re comfortable with the idea, then talk with Beck as well. That’s up to you.

“Sex is beautiful and very complicated. And it means different things to different people. There is no single goal that all sexual assault survivors share. You need to decide what you would like your goals to be, and we’ll work on some tools to help you try and achieve them. But you also need to understand that those goals might reshape themselves as we continue, and that’s okay.

“From what you’ve told me, your triggers are vague and inconsistent, which makes things tricky. You’re going to have to listen to your body constantly as we can map out a clearer pattern. Try something, listen, stop, or continue, and listen again. And Beck will need to understand that process and be prepared to turn on a dime if needed and follow your lead.

“We’ll work on tools and exercises, but there’s no guarantees. You can only test them, bring them back, and then we discuss and tweak or discard. And we keep talking. Talking, talking, talking.”

Fucking talking.

I’d left his room with a couple of the promised tools in my pocket, some basic refreshers on breathing and visualisation to help with the panic attacks, and an exercise in touching to try with Beck. Oh, and an appointment for the following week. According to Callum, this new relationship offered the ideal opportunity—petri dish—and was therefore deserving of a full-court press. Ergo, weekly appointments for the foreseeable future.

Oh joy.

Cutting my emotions into shreds on a weekly basis? Sign me up.

Is he worth it?Bloody Hunter.

I booked the next two months without a word.

“Morning.” Beck appeared at the door with a tray of pancakes and bacon, and my stomach growled.

“Where’s yours?” I wriggled to a sit and took the tray.

“I already ate, but I’ll snag a piece of toast. Here.” He planted a lingering kiss on my mouth and then fluffed my damn pillows, and yes, sappy didn’t even begin to describe the flutter in my belly. That done, he perched on the side of my bed, nibbling on his toast while I stared at the mound of food and decided where to start. Pancakes were the obvious choice.

Talk.

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