Page 60 of When Love Found Us
I should have felt nothing but obligation. Nothing but duty, protection, a sense of responsibility. But that first day—the day she told me she was pregnant, when I realized she had nowhere else to go—something twisted deep in my gut.
I told myself it was anger.
That the burn in my chest had nothing to do with her. That it was only because of the way Winston treated her. I hate men who take advantage of others, men like my father who get a kick out of using their wives and children as punching bags. My father might’ve loved me, but I hated him so much for the way he treated his family. I wish I could say I was the one who killed him, but it was an innocent bystander who didn’t see him cross the street when my father was heavily intoxicated.
The thing is that I couldn’t not notice Blythe. Not when she curled up on my couch, smaller than before, all the fight drained from her, and I felt it.
That pull.
That uncomfortable, undeniable realization that I didn’t just want to protect her.
I wanted her with me.
Safe. Close.
And then things began to unravel.
I moved her into my space. She started wearing my clothes. We started falling asleep next to each other.
And now?
Now, I’m so fucking gone for her that I don’t even know where the line is anymore.
I keep redrawing it. I keep telling myself I won’t cross it.
Like that’s ever going to happen.
Every second of the day, I try not to think about her, but it never lasts. Inevitably, she slips into my thoughts, into the quiet spaces in my mind, and when she does?—
It’s the most beautiful fucking distraction.
I lose myself in her everything.
The way she tilts her head when she’s trying to figure something out. The way she mutters under her breath when she’s frustrated. The way she hums when she’s cooking, completely unaware that I’m watching.
She’s already under my skin, and the worst part is that every day, I get closer to fucking everything up.
Because if I let myself give in—if I stop pretending I don’t want her, that I don’t already have her in every way that matters—I could fail her in the worst way.
I could get distracted.
I could miss something.
And if I miss something, Winston wins.
If I slip, if I let my guard down, she loses more than just me.
She loses the chance at the life she’s fighting for.
And fuck, if it doesn’t scare me to think about what happens to her if I fail—what happens to the baby she’s carrying. If I let myself go there, if I let myself think about what happens to me if I lose them. I shut that thought down immediately.
I have to remind myself that I don’t have them.
They’re not mine.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Blythe says, pulling me out of my head.
“Am I?” I frown because I hadn’t noticed.
