Page 203 of Carrick
When I pulled back, I met his eyes and said, “Yeah. I’m saying I feel it too.”
He stared at me like he’d never seen me before. Like he’d been preparing for a different answer and didn’t quite know what to do with the real one. And for the first time since I stepped into this house, I wasn’t afraid of being too much. I wasn’t afraid at all.
His hand stayed curled at my waist like he didn’t trust the moment not to vanish. Like I might disappear if he let go.
I didn’t move. Didn’t break the contact. Didn’t rush the silence.
Because I could feel it building inside him—the thing he hadn’t said yet. The thing he wanted to say. The thing I knew was sitting just behind his lips like a truth too big to stay hidden much longer. And then—quietly, carefully—he said it.
“I love you.”
The words didn’t burst from him. They didn’t stumble. They landed like they’d been waiting their whole life to be spoken. Like he hadn’t just realized it—but like he’d known, and hadn’t had a place to put it until now.
I felt them in my chest before my brain even caught up. Not panic. Not disbelief. Just warmth. Wider than breath. Deeper than grief. The kind of warmth that settles into your bones and tells you it’s okay to stop running.
I didn’t look away. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t make a joke or sidestep the weight of what he gave me. I reached up, cupped his jaw, and let my thumb trace the edge of his cheekbone. “I love you, too,” I whispered.
His eyes closed like the words undid something in him he hadn’t even realized was wound too tight. He didn’t kiss me right away. He didn’t speak. He just pulled me in and wrapped both arms around me like he could keep my heartbeat inside his own chest. And I let him. Let him hold me like I was something he’d never expected, but couldn’t live without. Let him exhale the truth of what we’d become.
This wasn’t lust. This wasn’t trauma-bonding.
This was love. Built in silence. Forged in pain. Held together by choice. And I knew—deep in my marrow—that it wasn’t going anywhere.
We lay tangled in the middle of the bed, covers pushed back, breath slow and even like the storm had passed, but the sky was still learning how to be blue again. His chest rose beneathmy cheek, one arm wrapped around my back, the other tracing soft, aimless patterns across the small of my spine. I could feel the words still humming in the air between us—I love you—not repeated, not rushed, just present. Real.
I stayed quiet for a long time. Not because I had nothing to say. But because for the first time, I felt like I didn’t have to fill the silence to be held in it. His body under mine was warm and steady, like he’d stay here forever if I needed him to. And maybe he would. Maybe he already had.
I shifted, just enough to press my lips to his collarbone. Just enough to let the soft breath I’d been holding out sink into his skin. Then I said it. “I’m not going back.”
“You mean your apartment?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, then tipped my head back to meet his eyes. “I mean everything. I’m not going back to pretending I’m okay alone. To pretending I don’t need anyone. To pretending that what happened doesn’t hurt.”
I took a breath. Let it fill my lungs. Let it settle. “I’m staying. Here. With you.”
His brow creased—just slightly. Not with confusion. But with something that looked a lot like hope, waiting to believe it. “You don’t have to decide that now,” he said carefully. “You’ve been through?—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “I know what I’ve been through. I know how hard it’s going to be. But I also know how I felt before you. Before this house. Before you looked at me like I wasn’t broken.”
He was so still beneath me. I could feel his heart thudding just under my hand, slow but hard, like it was pumping something thicker than blood.
“You didn’t fix me,” I said. “You didn’t even try. You stayed when everything fell apart. Held me through the wreckage. Letme be loud, ugly, grieving—never once asking me to pretend I was okay.”
Tears stung behind my eyes, but they didn’t fall. They weren’t the kind that demanded release. They were the kind that came from peace. “I didn’t think I could be safe like this. With anyone.” I swallowed. “But I am. With you, I am.”
His hand slid up my back, into my hair, cupping the back of my skull like I was precious. His mouth brushed my forehead, and I could feel it in that kiss—the way his love wasn’t loud. It was steady. Fierce. Quiet like a vow.
“I want you here,” he whispered. “For as long as you’ll stay.”
I pressed closer. Let him wrap around me. “I’m not going anywhere,” I murmured. And for the first time since my brother died—for the first time since my world cracked open—I meant it.
Because grief didn’t disappear when someone held you. But love made it survivable. And wrapped in Carrick’s arms, under the slow-turning fan, in a room that had seen both my breaking and my healing, I finally stopped running.
I stayed.
40
Quinn
