Page 30 of Unraveling with You

I give him an extra squeeze. “Of course. Are you teasing me?”

He chuckles, bending just enough to kiss my forehead through my bangs. My heart genuinely stops for a split second, restarting with a leaping sprint. Remington pulls back to find me breathless and stunned silent. He sputters into laughter. “Alright, in this case, I’m taking my girlfriend inside before she starves to death.”

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REMINGTON LOVES TOknit. I never thought to imagine those powerful, inked arms weaving yarn into delicate, beautiful patterns, but the second he’s honest with me about his hobby, I can see it perfectly; his hands on me range from whisper-gentle to deliciously firm, speaking of his sensitivity to the material or person he’s touching.

But he’s right. If this is what real love feels like, I don’t feel hurt by Remington. Love shouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it’s too soon to call it love, but the more questions we ask each other about our hobbies, favorite shows, and random stories from our childhood, the more I ache to watch candlelight glimmering in his black eyes for years to come.

Remington catches me staring, shifting into a gentle smile. “You look beautiful in the candlelight.”

I bite back my smile. “You stole my thoughts. I was just thinking you look beautiful too.”

Remington’s eyebrows soften into startled seriousness, and a jolt snaps through my chest. If I called my high school ex beautiful, he’d hate me for feminizing him.

“U-um, sorry–” I sputter.

But Remington’s seriousness shatters into a tense concern, his eyebrows arching. “Oh, no, sweet girl. I thought it was sweet. Just surprising to hear someone say that about me. But not– Not bad.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

As my shoulders soften, the more vulnerable Remington looks: less of a panther and more of a sad kitten. I want to hold him.

But Remington drops my stare, looking at my arm. “Can I hold your hand again?”

I break into a smile. “Please.”

Lifting my bruise-less hand, I reach for Remington. But then I remember he wanted to rub out my bruises tonight. Flushing deep, I switch hands, passing over my injured one.

Remington doesn’t move at first. When I glance at him, the surprise on his lifted eyebrows quickly snuffs out - like he didn’t want me to see. Shit, maybe I understood incorrectly. What if my bruise is triggering or disturbing for Remington to see too?

But his soft, sweeping touch scoops up my hand, settling our palms together. He’s so careful with my hand that a fuzzy warmth seeps up my arm, settling my tense shoulders.

Remington softly skates his thumb over my bruises. “Does it hurt to hold hands?”

“No,” I whisper.

Within seconds, Remington has me laughing again, chatting about nothing and everything. But all my focus is on our hands; it’s never felt so powerful and warm to hold someone’s hand. I run my thumb over him in return, hoping he feels just as good.

“I want to take care of you too,” I blurt out.

He chuckles, rubbing my thumb back. “That’s sweet, but what exactly do you mean by taking care of me?”

“You’ve helped me feel more secure, and I’d love to help you feel the same, somehow. E-even though I’m not sure how, or if I can.”

He looked touched until the last part, a crease forming between his brows. “What do you mean, you don’t think you can?”

“I don’t know how to say nice things to make you feel good, like you do. Or how to ask hard questions, even if I care about the answer - or care about the people I’m asking about, with my whole heart.”

Remington breaks into a sly grin. “Is that a deeper confession than the one we already had at the gym?”

I flush, ducking my head. What do I even say to that? The answer in my heart screams “yes,” but that feels too massive to share this early.

Remington chuckles. “Sorry, I had to tease you back a little. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

I peek at him. “I want to know.”

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