Page 21 of Better as It

One night, I find myself thinking back to a time when Justin had shown up for me without hesitation. This was how it started. These moments, he embraced the dumb shit I got myself into, but always he put me back together.

It was years ago, long before things got complicated between us. I was on a date with some guy Maritza set me up with—a banker, clean-cut, all smiles until the drinks kicked in and the charm turned to pressure. He got pushy. Too handsy. I stepped outside under the pretense of taking a call and texted Justin one word:

Help.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. Fifteen minutes later, the rumble of his bike cut through the street noise like thunder. He pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and stalked toward me with murder in his eyes. The guy started mouthing off until Justin got within arm’s reach. Then he backed down fast.

"She’s done with this night. Back off," Justin said, his voice low and dangerous.

He put his helmet on my head before I could say a word and helped me onto the back of his bike. As we took off, the wind whipped away the tension, the fear, the anger. I remember clinging to his back, the scent of leather and pine grounding me.

He didn’t speak until we were on an empty stretch of road, stars blinking above us.

"Let it go, Dia," he shouted over the engine. "Let it all go and just feel."

And I did.

I let the cold night air rip through me, let my heartbeat sync with the hum of his bike, let the adrenaline chase away the shame. When we finally stopped, we sat on a bench in front of where he parked his bike drinking lukewarm coffee, watching headlights pass on the highway not far away.

That night, he didn’t try to fix anything. He didn’t try to talk me down or dig into my pain. He just let me be the mess I was.

Back in the present, my chest aches at the memory. I miss that version of us—the friendship before the fire. The way hecould look at me and understand without me having to explain. That’s why Justin has always felt like home.

I don’t know how to feel about him. Because there is this part of me that finds comfort in him.

And that feels all too dangerous to my fragile heart.

It’s storming outside and I wonder if he will come tonight. Rain slams against the windows, thunder cracking like the world’s coming apart. Skye is curled up in her bed but alert. I’m on the floor again, curled into myself, sobbing until I can’t breathe.

Justin shows up without knocking. Just walks in like he’s done every night this week. He takes one look at me and drops to his knees, pulling me into his arms.

"I want to feel alive again," I sob. "I don’t want to be dead like him. I can’t keep living like this."

His hands cradle my face, his forehead against mine. "You’re not dead. You’re grieving. And I’m right here."

I don’t know what comes over me. I kiss him.

It’s desperate. Raw. Messy.

But he kisses me back like I’m something fragile and breakable. Like he wants to take my pain and hold it for me.

The kiss deepens. His hands slide into my hair, then down to my hips. He lifts me without a word and carries me to the bedroom. Our clothes fall away, slow and purposeful.

“You want this to stop, say so darlin’.”

I grab at him firmer, kissing him hard. I can’t speak. I can only fall in line with what my body craves.

Him.

In this moment, I’m not grieving the man who was safe for my heart. No, I’m embracing the passion that wrecked me once and will wreck me again. I can’t help myself. My very soul wants to be connected to him just once more.

When we fall into bed it’s not about sex. It’s not about the past. It’s about now.

About need.

About trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.

His touch is patient. Sweet. Every brush of his mouth on my skin is like a reminder that I still exist. That I still have a body. That I’m still here.

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