Page 30 of Breaking Through

"No." His fingers rested feather-light against my skin. "They tell your story. Show where you've been and what you've survived. That's always a beautiful story."

The dam, constructed of years of meticulously defined defenses, broke inside my chest. I pushed forward and kissed him again. His lips were soft, and a light moan from him escaped into my mouth.

The tips of our tongues touched, and then they danced. It was slow and twisting. Reality crashed back when Holden started unbuttoning my shirt. The scars. He'd see all of them up close. They were the permanent map of my failures. In the photo, the mist made them hazy. Now, he would see them in sharp relief.

"Hey." He froze, reading my tension. "We don't have to—"

"No, I..." Words failed. They always did when it mattered most.

Holden waited patiently, hands steady on my chest. He didn't make demands or exert any pressure. It was just his quiet presence while I fought my urge to run.

Slowly, watching his face, I reached for my buttons and undid another one. His breath caught as more scarred skin came into view, but not in horror.

He uttered that word again. "Beautiful." This time, I didn't laugh at it or even smirk.

His fingers traced each mark with an artist's care. No one had ever touched them like that. No one had ever made me feel...

The chime of my phone shattered the moment. I quickly tugged it out of my pocket. It was a text message from a Chicago area code.

It told about the annual memorial service for the warehouse victims. It was the reminder I dreaded every year.

Reality slammed into me. Christ, what was I doing? Holden was twenty-five.

"Wade?" The concern in his voice made me blink. "What's wrong?"

I stepped back, immediately missing his warmth. "This isn't... I can't..."

"Yes, you can." He moved forward and closed the distance I tried to put between us. "Stop thinking so much."

"Holden. You deserve—"

"What I deserve is the chance to choose for myself." He set his jaw. "And I choose this. Choose you."

The phone buzzed. It was a call this time from Chief Matthews.

"You need to take that?" Holden's voice was steady.

I shook my head, letting the call go to voicemail. The message could wait, like all the others I avoided. Chief wanted me on the memorial planning committee. It was a survivor's group. The whole damn department wanted to remind me of everything I'd left behind.

"It's the Chicago Fire Department, isn't it?" Holden missed nothing. "A memorial service?"

My silence was answer enough.

"Hey." One of his hands moved to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over stubble. "Look at me."

I did, though it cost me. I started to drown in his eyes.

"Three beautiful things." His voice was soft. "Right now."

"What?"

"It's Gran's trick for grounding. Tell me three beautiful things you can see right this moment."

A laugh caught in my throat. "This really isn't—"

"Humor me." I stared at that stubborn chin again.

I closed my eyes for a few seconds and then reopened them. It was like a reboot, and I hoped I could see everything around me differently. "The light." The words came out rough. "Through the windows. How it hits the pine floors. Makes wavy patterns like... like the lake."

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