Page 111 of Fallen Stars

Pivoting, he exits the bathroom, pads across the room, and goes to the small walk-in closet. Just before he steps inside, he tugs the towel free and flashes me his sculpted ass.

My skin heats at the sight. My cock twitches beneath my zipper. An undeniable hum courses through my veins.

Fuck, I want him.

So damn much.

But every time I attempt to do anything more than hold his hand or caress his cheek or lean into a side embrace, memories fromtheninvade the present and I nosedive into a panic attack.

Almost four goddamn weeks of therapy and normal hugs still freak me out. I can barely touch Oliver or be touched by him without seeing the sadistic motherfuckers that came into my cell and violated me.

Why can’t I erase the nightmares from my mind? Why can’t I move forward and forget those horrific sixty days?

A hug. All I want is a hug from my boyfriend. Warm arms wrapped around my middle. Strong chest pressed to mine. Nose in the crook of my neck as he breathes me in. Undeniable love radiating between us.

I miss the feel of him in my arms. The way his body molds perfectly to mine every time. The way he knows exactly how to hold me in every moment. Gentle or strong or greedy.

I miss the taste of him on my tongue. The way every kiss with Oliver is as potent and heady and addictive as the first. His moans that tell me he needs more. His whimpers as I deepen the kiss and push us further.

I miss how everything clicks into place when we’re connected in every possible way. How the world completely disappears. How everything is perfect when he’s inside me, or I’m inside him.

Beforethat night, I miss the way we were before then.

The only way to get back there is to heal and resume life as it once was. Not fully. One manageable step at a time is how I rediscovernormaland take back my life.

A little more than a week ago, I bolted from my parents’ house. Wandered the streets until I bumped into Oliver. Thought I was hallucinating when he called my name.

For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t seeing things.Thank god.

He brought me back to his apartment—ourapartment—and made me feel safe. At home for the first time in weeks. With his hand in mine, he eased some of my burdens. Not expecting anything in return, he shouldered some of my weight. And after I cut myself open and spilled the atrocities of the last two months, he promised to help me find normal again. Together.

That night, I took my first step toward normal. I made my address the same as his. Again.

Today, the next big step is walking through the front door of TWSIS.

By no means am I ready to dive into work. But I do want to find a daily routine of sorts. Part of that routine includes easing back into a job I love—even if I’m only doing grunt work for months.

“Ready?” Oliver asks as he steps out of the closet in jeans, a Poke the Yolk T-shirt, and black Vans. A hoodie draped over his shoulder.

I love how Oliver doesn’t question my decision to go to work today. How he doesn’t try to steer me away from activities or places or people.

If anything, he supports my decisions. Even encourages them.

When I brought up work a few nights ago, Oliver told me Tymber comes into Poke the Yolk every morning, orders the same thing, then mentions how much he misses me in the office. Not my work. Not my financial worth to the company.Me.

His relayed message would’ve come across as endearing to some. For me, it said I was wanted. Necessary. That my absence didn’t go unnoticed. I am more than just some whiz behind a computer screen.

One simple message further solidified my resolve.

More than his support, I love that Oliver doesn’tpush. He doesn’t ask what I will be doing in the office. He doesn’t sprinkle everything I want to do with doubt. He doesn’t suggest activities I dislike because they’regood for recovery.

Oliver trusts me to make the right decisions for myself.

And it’s his confidence in me that makes me love him even more.

“Mm-hmm.” I rise from the bed, grab one of his hoodies from the closet, tug it over my head and inhale deeply, then meet him at the door.

We jog down the stairs to his car and I scan our surroundings. He unlocks it with the fob as I round the hood for the passenger side, hop in, and lock the doors. As I click my seat belt in place, he cranks the engine and tugs on his hoodie. While we wait for the car to warm up, I connect my phone to the stereo and scroll through playlists.

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