Page 116 of The Secrets We Built Together

I nodded slowly. "It was always there. I just couldn't access it. Like it was behind a wall that I couldn't break through." I set my pencil down, meeting his gaze. "Until Amelia. Until you."

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. "What made the difference?"

I considered the question, trying to put into words what I'd felt. "I think I was afraid of looking at who I really was. Afraid that if I really put myself into my art, if I was truly vulnerable there, I might not be good enough. That I'd prove my parents right."

"Blake," he said softly, and just the way he said my name made my chest ache.

"I know it's stupid—"

"It's not stupid," he interrupted, leaning forward. "Fear never is. It's just... misdirected sometimes."

I set my sketchbook aside and moved to sit beside him on the bed. "What are you afraid of?"

His eyes met mine, golden brown and serious. "Honestly? That I'll mess this up. That the pressure will get to be too much, and I'll fall back into old patterns."

"You mean drinking," I said quietly.

He nodded, looking down at his hands. "It wasn't just the stress of the job, you know. It was the emptiness. Coming home to an empty apartment, no one to share the good days with, no one to help shoulder the bad ones." His voice dropped lower. "I was so lonely, Blake. And booze filled that void, for a while."

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. "And now?"

"Now I have you. And Amelia." He squeezed my hand. "And it's terrifying because it matters so much more. Losing you would hurt so much worse than anything I've ever felt."

My throat tightened. "You're not going to lose me."

"No?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"No," I said firmly. I shifted closer until our thighs were touching. "I love you, Xander. I'm in this. All the way."

A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. "I’ll never get tired of hearing that. I love you too, Blake. So damn much."

And then he was kissing me, his hand coming up to cup my face. I leaned into him, my fingers sliding into his hair as our lips moved together, slow and deep and perfect. He tasted like coffee and the mint gum he always chewed when he was working, and something uniquely Xander that I'd come to crave.

His hand slid down to my waist, fingers slipping under the hem of my paint-splattered t-shirt to find bare skin. I shivered at his touch, goosebumps rising wherever his fingers trailed.

"Can I see?" he murmured against my lips.

I pulled back slightly, confused. "See what?"

"The drawing."

I laughed softly, charmed by his interest in my art even now, when we were clearly heading in another direction. I reached for the sketchbook and handed it to him.

He studied the rough drawing, his expression serious. "You see me better than anyone ever has," he said finally, his voice thick with emotion.

"I pay attention," I said simply.

He set the sketchbook aside carefully, then turned back to me. His hands found the hem of my shirt again. "May I?"

I nodded, lifting my arms as he pulled the shirt over my head and dropped it to the floor. His eyes darkened as they roamed over me.

"Now who's seeing who?" I teased, but my voice came out breathier than I'd intended.

"You're incredible," he murmured, his hand coming up to trace the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone. "Every inch of you."

I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as his fingers trailed down to the swell of my breast. "You're not so bad yourself, Doctor."

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, but then his lips were on my neck, and I wasn't thinking about anything except the feel of him against me.

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