Page 84 of Ruin Me Gently

That was… not what I expected him to say. At all.

Touch me?What, like a fucking museum exhibit?

I didn’t know what else to do. So I nodded. Barely.

What the hell was I doing?

He moved slowly and carefully, approaching me with the caution you’d use when tending to a wounded animal. His fingers brushed my arm, and his palm slid up, a barely there shift of heat over fabric as he reached my shoulder.

It should’ve felt suffocating. I should’ve wanted to pull away. Should’ve—fuck.

His other arm lifted. An offering. A silent question.

I hesitated, hovering in the space between us, body taut with the instinct to flee. But something heavy, old, and buried in my marrow held me there, so I leaned in.

The second his arms wrapped around me, I died. A long, shaky breath shot out of me, like my lungs had been holding something caged and tight for way too long.

Sage and sea salt pressed into my skin. I could hear his heartbeat, fast and insistent beneath me. Was he nervous too?

I curled my arms around his midsection, gripping at the fabric of his hoodie, pressing closer. He was solid, steady—so damn steady. Like a weird anchor in the form of a masked stalker.

His chin came down, resting on top of my head.

Wait.

Was he sniffing me? His chest expanded in one deep, heavy inhale that cracked something in me.

I needed this. More than I wanted to admit. I neededmore. I nudged him back, just enough to make him shift, and to my surprise, he got the hint and sank into the cushions. My body melted into his, limbs tangling awkwardly as I curled against his chest, one arm draped over his ribs, the other fisted against his sternum like I desperately needed something to stop me from slipping through the cracks of my own mind. And I did.

God, it was wrong. So, so wrong. But my inner child—fractured, hollow, desperate for even a whisper of safety—was screaming for it.

He was unreasonably warm, and the rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek calmed something jagged inside me. The minutes stretched, measured only by the subtle flex of his fingers against my back.

“Can I stroke your hair?”

I stiffened. My brain still hadn’t caught up with the fact I was here, sitting in my living room, in this moment, wrapped up in something I didn’t have the energy to pick apart right now. But—hell. We were already here. So I gave him my permission with one word.

“Please.”

His hand came up, slow and tentative, fingers barely brushing through the strands at first, as if he was waiting for me to flinch back.

I didn’t.

A shudder ran through me instead, my body reacting before I could stop it, and I curled deeper into him as his fingers threaded through my hair in slow strokes. Each pass dragged against my scalp, easing the edges of my earlier panic, numbing the raw, frayed nerves still lingering beneath my ribs.

It felt… nice.Toonice.

I was wired with exhaustion, tension pressing in everywhere, but his touch smoothed over it, dulling it, pressing it down until I felt like I was floating.

“This okay?” he murmured, voice impossibly soft.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

His fingers ghosted over my skull again, slow and gentle, like he was memorising the feel of me, like he had nowhere else to be but here, stroking my hair whilst I held onto him, grounding me in a way I didn’t realise I needed.

My breath came easier now, deeper, syncing with the rhythm of his movements.

God, it was dangerous how good it felt.

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