Page 70 of A Labor of Hate
“Something like that,” he chuckled, the sound nearly lost to the storm.“You looked at the photo on your desk of the two of you a lot.Similar to the way you look at the daffodils outside, but less…sad.And the way you talk about her” —the mattress shifted slightly, and I could picture him shrugging— “you really care.”
I blinked in surprise.He’d noticed all of that?None of it had been conscious, yet thinking back on it, he was right.
My stomach flipped at the reminder of just how capable he was of truly seeing me.
“Yeah,” I admitted, my voice cracking until I cleared my throat.“I do.But I’m sure you know what that’s like.You probably miss your family, too, right?”
Then again, aside from confiding about his parents’ divorce and his mom’s experience with addiction, he hadn’t mentioned his family even once.Not before the assignment, and certainly not during it.
“I do.Most of the time, anyway.”
“Why only most of the time?”
He hummed thoughtfully.“They can be a bit…smothering… at times.Especially my mom.I think she’s trying to atone for the lost years in my childhood, so I don’t argue most of the time.And my dad, I think he was just lonely until he met his fiancée.”
“And do you like this future stepmom?”
He chuckled.“I do now, but not at first.You know how much I love change.”
“As much as fish love oxygen, I’d say,” I teased.“Do you have any siblings?”
“Nope.”A hint of amusement lifted his voice.“Only child.I always wanted siblings, though.”
“Yeah?”That could explain why he was such a family guy, honestly.With the way his family had fractured and restructured, coupled with his loneliness growing up, it would make sense if he wanted multiple kids of his own.“They’re a pain in the butt most of the time.Until they’re not.”
He shifted until his head rested against the headboard, the rustle of his hair against the wood barely audible.“Call me a masochist, but I think I would have liked that kind of pain.”
“You wake up at five-thirty every morning, Colt.You aredefinitelya masochist.”
He laughed and bumped his shoulder against mine.Though it was a playful nudge, it took me by surprise so much I swayed an embarrassing amount before righting myself.Ignoring my resolve to keep my distance from him, I took the opportunity to scooch a few inches closer.
Because I, too, was a masochist.
“Not to mention,” I continued, “you had to sit across from someone you hated for two months and kept coming back for more.So, yeah.Masochism has always been on the table for you.”
He huffed softly, and I wished again that I could make out the details of his face.I couldn’t explainhowI knew, but I did.He was smiling.And I wanted to see it, experience it, taste it in any sense possibleso badlythat I had to sit on my hands to keep from reaching for him.
“For the record, so did you,” he countered.“I know I’m not the easiest person to be around sometimes.”
I used to think so.There would undoubtedly be days where I’d think it again, when our quirks drove each other nuts.But in the end, quirks were the accessories, the details that contributed to our makeup.
But they weren’t everything.
They weren’t the bones.The soul.The framework that made us who we are.Some days his quirks might irritate me, and mine would irritate him.Other days, I’d adore them.And every single one of those days, his soul would remain the same.
That was what you fell in love with, in the end.Souls.That was what you offered in return, what you gave and melted and alloyed until you built something new and beautiful together.
And that was why losing it broke you.
I freed my hand and tucked a loose curl behind my ear, my heart hammering for reasons that had nothing to do with the storm.“Maybe I like the pain, too.”I swallowed hard.My lungs refused to take a full breath.“Or maybe it isn’t painful at all.Not to me.”
He didn’t reply, and the silence weighed against my chest.Squeezed it until I thought I’d burst.The monsoon outside blended into a hum against the roar of blood in my head.I’d said too much, shown too much, given him pieces he didn’t want.I’d looked at the fence I built between us hours ago, inspected it for weaknesses, and taken a sledgehammer to it.Two hours.That’s how long I’d lasted before caving.All because the temptation of knowing him was too great to resist.
I was about to backpedal, change the topic, take my dishes to the sink—anything to salvage my pride—when his fingers brushed against mine where my hand rested on the mattress.I inhaled sharply at the contact.He’d kept his hand close enough I could feel its heat, the pull of the mattress toward it.
If he didn’t want to risk any accidental contact, he would’ve moved farther away, right?Granted, I was a little rusty in the dating department, but when it came to Colt, it felt like there were completely new rules, anyway.So, feeling every bit like an inexperienced teenager with butterflies in her stomach, I slid my hand against the sheet until our fingers touched again.But unlike him, I didn’t pull away.
This time, neither did he.
