Page 63 of The Space Between
Exhaling, she says, “That’s okay.”
She doesn’t push. She doesn’t flinch. She justwaits.And that does more damage than anything else. She’s not trying tofixme. She’s letting mechoose.
Turning around, I face her. Her eyes are soft, warm, and full of compassion. She doesn’t have any jealousy. There’s no judgement. She looks so fuckingpresentI want to scream.
But not at her.
At the ache in me. At the way she makes me want things I told myself I’d buried. At the terror of hope.
I cross the room in two strides and press her back against the wall. She gasps, but it turns into a moan as I kiss her.
Not like last night. Not like fucking. But likethisis what I’ve needed all day. All fuckingyear.
She moans again softly as her fingers curl into my shirt. Her lips part, and her tongue slides over and around mine. I pull back before I lose myself in her again
“I’m not okay,” I whisper against her mouth, breathing heavily.
“I don’t need you to be.” She whispers back.
“I’m notsafe.” I groan.
“You’re not dangerous.” She calmly says back.
“I’m not ready.” I finally say.
Sighing, she smoothes her palms down my shoulders and arms. Her touch is no longer intimate just comforting. “I’ll wait.”
My eyes burn as her forehead rests against mine. For the first time in six years, I feel like I’m notdrowningon dry land.
I’m breathing.
Barely.
But I’m fucking breathing.
CHAPTER 12
Blakelyn
I smellhim in the room. My thighs still ache from where he held me. My lips are raw from his mouth, and my chest—my chest is cracked clean open.
Wrapping the sheet tighter around my body, I stare at the ceiling as the fan hums overhead, too slow to offer relief, and too rhythmic to distract me from the war inside my chest.
He came back. He did. He walked to my cabin, knock, and waited for me to open the door. He kissed me like he was drowning, and I was the only breath left in the world. He touched me like he didn’t believe in second chances but couldn’t stop reaching anyway. And then, as is his normal, he left. I understand. I do. But I can’t pretend it doesn’t gut me every single time all the same.
The note is sitting on my counter, right next to my coffee pot.
Still here.
Two words scrawled in thick, uneven handwriting that looks like he nearly didn’t finish…. like it took everything he had just to leave that much behind. And itmeanssomething.
It’s not a lie. It’s not an apology. It’s not a promise.
It’s the one thing I never had from Tyler.
Presence.
Not performance. Not pressure. Not punishment.
