Page 48 of Awaiting the Storm
So, I did what any other non-grown-up would do. I ran. The tears were right there, hot and barely hanging on behind my eyes. I couldn’t let him see me fall apart. Not there. Not in front of a restaurant full of people. I left Caison in shock, clutching the folder to my chest and rushing out of the bistro, the bells above the door jangling loudlyin my ears.
My truck is just across the lot, sitting beneath the aspens that line the edge of the parking area. I fish my keys out of my pocket with a shaky hand, fingers fumbling as the tears threaten to spill.
Just get to the truck, Matty.
I force my legs to move as I hurry across the asphalt.
“Matty!” Caison’s voice comes racing up behind me just as I touch the door handle.
I squeeze my eyes shut.Dammit.
“Please,” he says, breathless, feet pounding the gravel as he runs toward me. “Stop. Just look at me.”
“I can’t,” I say, still facing the truck. My shoulders shaking.
I hear him slow behind me, then stop. He doesn’t touch me right away. He gives me a second. Then another. And finally, I feel his hand on me. He gently turns me, fingers warm and steady on my arm.
I keep my eyes down.
“I’m five seconds away from falling to pieces,” I whisper.
“Then fall,” he says softly. “I’ll catch you.”
And just like that, I do.
His arms are solid around me, wrapping me up in a strong, warm embrace, and it’s impossible not to collapse into him. I cry, hard but silent, the way you do when you’ve been holding it in for too long. It’s not pretty or graceful. It’s raw and guttural. And Caison just holds me.
I press my face to his chest, my fingers clutching the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth. His scent grounds me. It’s familiar and safe and dangerous, all at once.
When the sobs finally subside, I step back, and his hands come up to cup my face. His thumbs swipe the wetness from my cheeks.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says.
“I know.”
“I’m not trying to make things worse. I want to make them better.”
“I know,” I say again.
He lifts my chin. His eyes are steady, fierce, dark, and full of something I can’t name but feel deep in my chest. And then he leans in and presses his lips to the corner of one of my eyes right as another tear escapes. He kisses it away and then the one after that. And then his lips find mine.
The kiss is soft at first. Gentle. Careful. Like he’s seeking permission. Then it deepens, and everything shifts.
I wrap his shirt in my fists and pull him closer. There’s nothing careful about the way I kiss him back. It’s all hunger and need. Years of built-up loneliness and grief are poured into it. The weight of being my family’s backbone and fixer melt away. And now, for once, I just want to be taken care of. Held. Wanted. Kissed just like this.
I don’t even notice the world around us. Just the feel of his mouth on mine, the heat curling low in my belly, the ache that builds when we come up for air, only to dive right back in again. Over and over, like we’re drowning in each other and neither of us can get enough.
I vaguely hear laughter and conversations in the distance. A door chime. Footsteps crunching on gravel. But it all seems miles away. We’re hidden here, half shielded by trees and the darkness of a Wyoming night.
When I finally pull back to take a breath, I rest my forehead against his chest.
“I can’t think straight,” I murmur.
“Good,” he says. “You think too damn much.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a wet and shaky gurgle.
“Give me your keys.”
