Page 92 of Almost Ours
Because in this moment, nothing else mattered.
Or at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.
Yet as we lay there, tangled together in the warmth of the sheets, my mind wouldn’t quite settle. A memory from earlier flickered through my thoughts–his voice when he’d said,“she was…”I hadn’t questioned it then, but now, it lingered. A quiet, insistent tug in the back of my mind.
I debated whether to ask. I didn’t want to ruin the moment, didn’t want to pry. But something about Ryan made me want to understand him–made me want to know the things that shaped him, even if I wasn’t sure I was ready to share my own.
I shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes were dark, too full of emotion for me to read, and there was a heaviness there that made my heart ache.
“Ryan,” I began, my voice tentative, “you mentioned your mom earlier… I couldn’t help but notice the way you talked about her. Is she…?” I trailed off, not sure how to finish the question.
He held my gaze for a beat, then exhaled slowly, like the answer was too heavy to carry. “She passed away six years ago.”
My breath caught. “I’m so sorry.”
He gave a faint nod, eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder. “Car accident. She was… on her way to one of my games.” His voice cracked just enough to betray how much it still hurt. Before I could respond, his jaw tightened, the shutters slamming down.
“Anyway,” he said abruptly, forcing a small shrug that didn’t match the weight in his voice, “it was a long time ago.”
“Ryan,” I reached for his hand, but he shifted, running a palm over his face like he could wipe the moment away.
“It’s not something I like to talk about,” he muttered. The words weren’t unkind, but they were final.
I let the silence settle between us, even though my heart ached to ask more. He’d given me the bare bones of the truth, but I could feel the rest–layers of pain and guilt–locked up tight behind walls he wasn’t ready to let me climb.
The soft lightof the morning filtered through the curtains, casting a muted glow across the bedroom. I blinked slowly, taking in the quiet, the stillness… and the warmth of her.
Harper was curled against me, her back pressed to my chest, my arm draped over her like I couldn’t bear to let go.
Because I couldn’t.
Her hair was a little messy, tickling my jaw, and I breathed her in slowly, not wanting to move. Not wanting to break the spell.
The night before was still fresh in my mind–every sound she made, every way her body moved under mine. The things she whispered when she thought I wasn’t listening. It hadn’t just been sex. It had been something deeper. Something I hadn’t let myself want in a long time.
Especially not with someone like her–someone kind, someone strong, someonereal.
I thought about the words I hadn’t said. How I’d only told her part of the story last night. I didn’t tell her that my dad and I don’t speak anymore. That after my mom died, he looked me in the eye and said it was my fault–that if she hadn’t been onthe road to my hockey game, she’d still be alive. And yeah, deep down I know it isn’t true, but back then? That grief and guilt and white-hot anger stuck to me like a second skin. I let it twist me into someone I didn’t like, someone I didn’t even recognize. It took years to crawl out of that place, and even now, dragging it into the light felt like ripping open a wound I’d spent too long trying to stitch shut.
So I didn’t say any of that.
I just tightened my arm around her, keeping her close like I could hold the moment steady.
She shifted gently, trying not to wake me, but I felt the moment she slipped out of bed. Cold air rushed in where her warmth had been, and I instinctively reached out to the empty space she left behind.
The mattress creaked as she padded out of the room, and I sat there in the quiet, staring at the ceiling, wondering why the hell it felt so easy with her and so impossible at the same time.
Was last night a mistake?
No. It couldn’t have been. It had felt too good… too right. Like for the first time in years, I’d let myself breathe.
Harper deserved more than this, though–more than me.
And if I was honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to give that to her. I’d spent so long locking everything down, keeping people at arm’s length, that I didn’t know if I could ever let someone all the way in again.
And yet, with her, I wanted to. God help me, I wanted to.
But wanting and being capable were two different things, and the space between them was dangerous. For her. For me.
