Page 65 of Carrick
She looked up at me, the answer hanging between us.
“Because I see you,” I said. “All of you. Not just the parts you show the world.”
That flicker returned—uncertain, tentative—but not dismissive. She didn’t push it away.
“You say that like it’s a good thing,” she said softly.
“It is,” I answered. “Even if it’s scary.”
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Terrifying,” she murmured. “Because it makes me want more.”
My pulse throbbed hard at that. A slow, deliberate ache in my ribs. I didn’t reach for her. I didn’t pull her closer. I just let the truth settle.
“Then take it,” I said. “You don’t have to explain it. Just take what you need.”
She did. She didn’t collapse into me, didn’t seek refuge like a woman drowning. She just shifted a little closer, her hand finding the center of my chest, fingers splayed against my skin like she needed to remind herself I was real. Her breath warmed the curve of my neck. Her presence wrapped around me like a second skin.
“I don’t know how to do this slowly,” she whispered.
I folded my hands around hers and held them there against my heart. “Then we won’t,” I said. “We’ll do it our way.”
She turned her face into my collarbone. Her lips didn’t move, but I felt the shiver that passed through her. My arms wrapped around her like instinct, and I leaned back against the headboard as she shifted around to straddle my hips, laying against my chest. My body, for better or worse, already understood hers.
“I don’t want to need you,” she confessed.
“I know.”
“But I feel like I’m starting to.”
“I know that too.”
She melted into me slowly, like thawing ice—spine softening, jaw loosening, her fingers sketching absent patterns across my chest as if she was trying to memorize me by touch. Every motion was quiet and instinctive, like some part of her needed to anchor to the moment without knowing if it would last.
When I whispered, “You’re not alone anymore,” against her temple, the words landed heavier than anything I’d ever said. Not a promise. A truth. One I meant with every breath in my body.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t nod or shift away. She just stayed there—pressed to me, letting it in. Lettingmein.
Eventually, she moved. Not to escape, but to find me. Her chin tipped, her eyes rose, and the moment our gazes locked, the air tilted. That storm-gray stare was glassy, but steady—mist clearing just enough to reveal something unguarded beneath. Not lust. Not fear. Something quieter. Softer. The kind of fragile openness that made it hard to breathe. That made something old in me ache to protect it.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, her voice low, a little rough at the edges, like the words had to climb out of some place fragile.
I nodded wordlessly. My fingers were still stroking gentle patterns across the slope of her back, each pass a reassurance. A reminder. I’m here.
She hesitated—and I could tell it was not because she didn’t know what she wanted to ask, but because she wasn’t sure if she was ready for the answer.
“Why me?” she asked. “Why are you… like this, with me?”
I didn’t play it off or smirk or give her some clever, forgettable line. I just looked at her. Really looked at the woman in my arms. The one who’d broken and begged and come undone under my hands. The one who didn’t realize yet that she was still breaking open, in a way that wasn’t ruin—but rebirth.
“Because you don’t pretend,” I said. “Not when it counts. Because you fight, even when you’re tired. Because you’re real. Messy. Honest. Because I see your strength, and it doesn’t make me want to tame you. It makes me want to stand next to you.”
She blinked once, slowly. Her lips parted like she might argue, but nothing came. No protest. No sarcasm. Just the slow throb of truth settling into the air between us.
My hand slid from her back to her jaw. Not possessive—just present. My thumb brushed her cheek, the skin still damp and flushed from the heat of the shower, and something about the contrast—the vulnerability in her eyes paired with the strength still humming beneath her skin—undid something in me. Something I hadn’t realized I’d been keeping locked away.
“You scare the hell out of me,” she whispered.
“I know,” I murmured, leaning just enough to press my forehead to hers. “You scare the hell out of me, too.”
