Page 68 of Resilient Love

The wordsshe’s written surrounding our names have my eyes burning with unshed tears. My throat feels tight as I swallow around a lump of emotion, unable to fully clear the haze in my mind that’s covering up the unfamiliar emotion.

But if this is what I think this is, ifthisis love, then calling it an emotion is a very poor sentiment. It sullies the word itself because I don’t think this could be reduced down to something as simple as a feeling experienced based on hormones and external stimuli alone.

So instead of speaking, knowing the words in my head would come out all wrong, ruining the moment and potentially causing Elise to run for the hills, I pull out my phone. I snap a photo ofthe place where our names will sit side by side until the walls of this ancient building come crumbling down around them withus, and this moment buried beneath it, an encapsulated memory of this precious moment in time. A moment where two people, so burdened by the heavy weights they’ve carried with them, are able to help the other carry that struggle, even if only for a moment.

I suck in a breath, physically shaking the uncharacteristically poetic thoughts from my mind before emailing the photo to myself,just in case.

“You ready to finish this?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes, all but stomping up the next hundred steps until she makes it to the last three. They’re rickety wooden stairs, the smallest ones we’ve seen all day. They sit beneath a slanted metal door flanked by two thin windowpanes that let in the blinding streams of light from outside. Her hands visibly shake as she reaches up, unlatching the door and pulling it open.

She teeters backward, and my hands shoot out, gripping her hips tightly as she peers down over her shoulder at me, a silent “thank you” written all over her face.

“I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” I quietly remind her. She lets out a little huff and climbs the last three steps, her fingers pale from her iron grip on the railing.

There’s a small metal platform on the roof. It’s settled firmly on top of the terracotta shingles with supports beneath it and four-foot-high fencing soldered around the perimeter.

She barely moves as I climb up behind her, stretching my limbs from the way we were both hunched over for the last several steps due to the limited ceiling height. I wrap an arm around her waist, resting my chin on her shoulder. I do my best to hold in the laughter threatening to break free when I realise her eyes are cinched shut, possibly with more force than her hands on these railings.

“Baby, you’ve gotta relax,” I whisper calmly into her ear. “Loosen your grip, I promise, this isn’t like the time on the roof, okay? We’re a foot from the railing, and I won’t make you move any closer than that unless you want to. But you’ve gotta release some of this tension and open your eyes for me.”

She nods her head, and I feel some of the tension ease from her body. It’s certainly not all of it, but we’re making some serious progress.

“That’s good, baby. Now open your eyes.”

I know the moment she does because she sucks in a gasp, whipping her head around to catch all the beauty of this unassuming town.

From up here, we can seeeverything. From the field of wildflowers we’d driven past on our way here to the inn we spent the night at, and the city’s centre filled with food carts, street performers, musicians, and artists celebrating some Catholic saint.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers.

I bring my mouth to the shell of her ear. “And so are you.”

She melts against my chest, and after standing up here for fifteen minutes, enjoying the light breeze, the faint sounds from the streets below us, and the sun peeking through the clouds above, settling into our skin, we’re both ready to turn back.

“You sure you don’t want to close that gap and step up to the railing?” I tease.

She turns in my arms, rolling her eyes. “Ha, ha, very funny. But no. I’ve had more than enough nightmare fuel for the day,” she says, pulling out of my arms and white-knuckling it down the steps.

CHAPTER FIFTY

FRIDAY, MAY 23

After a long dayof facing fears that I absolutely havenotovercome, regardless of the extra special trauma I experienced today, and many hours of strolling through the small town festival, enjoying live music and eating our way through the day, I’m glad to be back in bed.

Though as much as I’d expected to be tired, andI am, my pussy has certainly not gotten the memo.

Rafael has me clutched tightly to his chest, his eyes lazily roaming my body, committing every piece of me to memory. His thick length is jutting out, rubbing against the now wet silk seam of my pyjama shorts, and the feeling of his fingertips drawing leisurely patterns over my skin has every nerve ending firing.

“Do you remember what I told you earlier?” he asks, his voice low and husky.

I nod because I’ve been thinking about it all goddamn day my reward for nearly dying today.

Okay, maybe that’s ataddramatic.

“And what would you like to do with that information?” he asks, his warm breath coasting over my lips, sending a shiver down my spine.

I push hard on his chest, effectively rolling him onto his back, as I swing a leg over his lap and straddle his waist.

A lopsided smirk curves my lips as I peer down at him, my fingers digging into the sculpted muscles of his chest, and his large, callused hands grip my hips firmly as I settle down over him.

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