Page 86 of Ruin Me Gently

“Let me see those abs again.”

Then she’d shove me onto the couch, lay her head on me, and press her face into my hoodie like she belonged there.

I wasn’t supposed to be doing it.

And yet, my hands found her hair without hesitation, stroking through the soft strands, mapping the shape of her skull, memorising the weight of her against me. And I felt it—thatthing—the ache that’d burrowed itself into my bones when she first entered my life. The one I’d tried to ignore, convincing myself it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Every time she shifted against me—just a little, just enough—heat would slam through me, sharp and sudden, stomach knotting hard. Shame crawled up my spine, bitter and suffocating, even as my fingers threaded deeper into her hair.

What was wrong with me?

She’d just lay there, stretched across my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world, her head tucked beneath my chin, hand resting loosely on my ribs, fingers sometimes trailing absently against my hoodie.

And all the while, she’d make me sit through one of those god-awful rom-coms she loved so much.

I hated those movies. But when she laughed, when she’d snort mid-sentence or mumble some sarcastic commentary under her breath, it didn’t matter how bad the movie was. Because that sound? That sound felt like a hand in my chest, gripping my ribs and giving them a good, hard squeeze.

I swallowed it down every time. Buried it so deep I thought I might choke on it. Because this wasn’t about me. Wasn’t this whole thing about keeping her safe? Making her happy?

And if she felt safe when she pressed herself closer, if she felt happy when my fingers raked through her hair—then I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing.

At least, that’s what I told myself every night when I wrapped my arm around her, letting her warmth seep through my clothes, branding me from the inside out.

Because the ugly, selfish truth, was that I liked it. I liked the weight of her against me, the way her body seemed to mould to mine like she belonged there. I liked the way her fingers would tap against my chest in time with the movie’s soundtrack, the way she’d hum quietly when she got lost in a scene she loved.

And every night, when I finally forced myself to go, dragging myself away from the only place I actually wanted to be, I reminded myself why I had to.

Because no matter how much I wanted to keep her right there, curled against me like she was made to fit, no matter how hard I ached to stay…

Wanting something didn’t mean you deserved to have it.

I shifted on my feet, watching as Lilith turned the key in the bookstore door, jiggling it a little before tugging to make sure it was locked. It was late. The street was mostly empty, save for the occasional car rolling by, headlights slicing long streaks of light across the damp concrete.

Her head snapped up, gaze locking on me and she sighed, loud enough to cut through the distance between us.

“Nope. We’re done with that,” she shouted over to me, waving her hand at the space between us. “Over here. Now.”

I sighed through my nose, adjusted my scarf across the lower half of my face like that was going to do anything, and did exactly as I was told.

The crossing light flashed green just in time, saving me from the indignity of jogging across the street like an obedient puppy. But still, my feet carried me to her like it was inevitable. Like I had no choice in the matter.

She tilted her head slightly, squinting at me like she was trying to see through my layers. Then, she stepped back and nodded toward the pavement. “Come on then.”

I fell into step beside her.

She didn’t look at me as she walked, or as she veered toward the convenience store and pushed the door open, heading straight for the drinks fridge. She grabbed a bottle of soda and a few snacks off the shelf, then glanced up at me over her shoulder, one brow arching. “You want anything?”

I shook my head.

She huffed, but didn’t press. Instead, she headed for the counter. I followed, keeping a step behind as she set her things down. The cashier barely glanced up as he scanned her stuff.

She reached for her wallet, flipping it open with one hand as she dug for her card with the other.

And I moved.

Leaning in close enough to brush against her shoulder, I reached over, and tapped my card against the reader.

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