Page 41 of Ruin Me Gently

I hadn’t meant for her to catch me. I didn’t know how she had. I’d been careful. But the door had swung open, her voice had cut through the air, and I’d frozen. I hadn’t known what to do. Run? Stay? Pretend I was a passerby out for acasual morning jog in full winter gear like a totally normal, well-adjusted person and not some complete creep?

I moved to the bench press, the clang of steel weights slicing through the silence as I slid the plates into place.

This wasn’t about strength, it wasn’t about gains or endurance or any of the usual bullshit. It was about shutting out the thoughts I couldn’t bury no matter how deep I tried to shove them. Shutting out the strange, clawing sensation at the edges of my mind that refused to let go. Shutting out the image of her standing there in the early morning glow, a goddamn gun levelled at me, wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt and the messiest bed head I’d ever seen.

I should’ve been focused on the weapon. On the fact she was whisper-shouting at me, half-feral, all fire.

But my brain did the dumbest thing it could’ve possibly done.

It rewired. Shifted. Fucked off completely into primal mode.

And I looked.

I hadn’t meant to. I really hadn’t meant to.

But she was right there.

That T-shirt draped over soft curves, fabric pulling in places it had no business clinging to. The way it slipped off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin and tiny constellations, the delicate slope of her collarbone catching the sunrise—then lower.

Her thighs.

Thick, soft, inked.

Flowers, books, intricate whirls of ink traced along full, plush skin, the lines curling over the curve of those beautiful legs that I very suddenly wanted to see more of.

Stop it.

I lowered the bar, chest burning as the weight pressed down. My arms trembled with the strain as I pushed it back up, gritting my teeth and willing the burn to take over.

She’d called me out on my staring. And I’d completely forgotten that she was holding me at gunpoint.

Because in that moment, she didn’t think I was the idiot who had spent weeks making sure she was safe from actual threats.

No.

She thought that Iwasthe threat. She thought I was Clark. She thought Clark had sentme.

How the hell had I not even considered she might think the gifts were from him?

How stupidwasI?

To her, I wasn’t some well intentioned stranger looking out for her. I was a lunatic lurking outside her door at the ass-crack of dawn.

And what did I do? Did I calmly explain that I wasn’t a threat? Did I reassure her that I wasn’t there to hurt her? That I’d only shown up to deliver something I thought might keep her safe without my interference?

Nope. My brain had glitched even more, and for some unbeknownst reason, I’d waved at her.

Wavedat her. I may as well have shot her finger guns and a wink.

If you looked up ‘moron’ in the thesaurus, you’d find my stupid face listed under the definition.

And to top off the insanity of the whole moment?

She said I had pretty eyes…

Lilith called mepretty.

What was I supposed to do with that?

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