Page 92 of Gathered Sparkle

“How is it?” I ask when he doesn’t let go of me.

“Much easier than expected.” He squeezes my hand. “Because it’syou. Being with you feels the same as it was before.” He smiles, and that little gesture makes my heart flip. “And I’ve been having some intense sessions,” he admits, his gaze fixed on where our hands are joined. “Because I want to get over this the fastest way possible. My therapist is confident I will. At least with you. But honestly, I only need to be able to touch you and get touched by you anyway.”

My heart catches in my throat. “What did she say?”

“She says I have to remind myself of why this matters to me, why rebuilding intimacy with my girl is so much more important than my fear, and let that motivation guide me.” His thumbstrokes over my knuckles. “And to remind myself that you would never hurt me. That you were never the one who hurt me.”

He still thinks of me as his?

“Believe me, Trouble, my motivation is so damn high. I… I need us to talk openly and communicate. And I need you not to be mad at me when I fuck up.”

“Of course.” I roll forward a little on the skates, wobbling slightly, but his grip on my hand tightens, steadying me. “It’s okay. You have trauma. I do too. There’s no rush, no expectation at all. I just… this.” I lift our joined hands. “This is already everything. You have no idea how much it means to me to talk to you. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“I do, Nova. I fucking do. Because I’ve craved you for years. I craved having you back, touching you, kissing you…” he takes a shaky breath, “… and now I could have it. I have you back. You’re here, a fucking miracle back from the dead. And I will not let myself get in the way of what I want.”

Oh my God.

I take a deep breath, but it makes me roll forward a little too far, and the wheels catch on a tiny crack in the driveway. I yelp, the sound embarrassingly similar to the dying baby goat he accused me of sounding like, and flail for balance.

Ace’s other hand shoots out, grabbing my forearm to steady me. Now, both of his hands are on me, and it flusters me more than I care to admit. “I-I’m sorry,” I stammer, trying to laugh it off. “You should’ve let me fall on my ass. That wasn’t some ploy to get you to touch me, I swear.”

Ace lets out a laugh, a loud, carefree sound that’s so much like how he used to laugh. And right then and there, I make a silent promise—I’ll do everything in my power to hear that sound as often as possible.

But first, we have to talk this out. Sylus, Koen, and—God—even Nicholas. The fact that I’m a stripper. I have to tell him. He has to know everything.

“You called me your girl.”

Ace’s lips tug into a smirk. “Caught that, huh?” His grin deepens as his hand reaches up, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, and the touch makes me suck in a sharp breath. “Nothing’s changed. You still have a say in it.”

His eyes lock onto mine with a gaze so intense it roots me in place, and I see him—not just the man in front of me but the sixteen-year-old boy who first called me his girl. His eyes are the same, but the weight of life has carved something deeper into them. The years, the grief, the separation… all of it falls away.

When I don’t say anything, he lets go of me and pulls up his sleeve, revealing a tattoo on the outside of his left forearm. It’s a match that’s blown out, the smoke curling up his arm in swirls.

“It’s for you.” His eyes stay fixed on the ink. “Some guy made it for me in juvie. It’s to remind me that you gave me your fire. You were my light. And I blew it out. I was left with this. Just a sizzled match and the smoke.”

My throat tightens as I stare at the tattoo, unable to look away. The curling smoke, the silent mourning of life destroyed, yet lingering. It’s like he’s wearing his grief on his skin, carrying the weight of what we lost for years.

But the matchstick… it’s still there, isn’t it?

Not burned away entirely. Just waiting for someone to strike it again.

Waiting for hope.

“But even after years of falling apart…” he continues, his eyes finding mine again, “… there’s still a part of me left for you. Even when I’m broken, I’m yours.”

Something cracks open inside me. I see him as he was, a boy with endless sass and light. And now, here he is, showing me what’s left—a broken gift he’s afraid I’ll reject.

My thoughts spiral. He’s calling himself broken, but what about me? This tattoo is for the other Nova, the Nova frombefore.

Does he know what it’s cost me to survive?

The question churns in my mind.

He’s saying that I’m his, but does he realize what I am now?

The things I’ve done?

“And you think I’m not? You think losing herandyou didn’t break me? You think I’m whole? That I’m sane?”

---