Page 77 of The Space Between
He showsup on my porch with a six-pack and silence.
Staring at him for a bit through the screen door, I let him in without a word.
Setting the beer down on the table, he runs a hand through his hair, and sits in the same chair he first told me his daughter’s name.
We don’t speak for a long time.
Then, he says, “I know I’m doing this wrong.”
I stare at the label on my wine bottle and breathe. “All I asked you was to stay, Gruene. I asked you for one thing.”
He shakes his head. “I know. I said I wasn’t ready and I’m not sure I am, but I’m here. Now. I want to be. I just really fucking suck at this.”
Something in me breaks… and blooms… all at once.
I should ask for more. I should demand it.
But I don’t…
Because if I push, I’m scared he’ll walk away.
So, I say nothing.
I don’t ask questions… not when he pushes to his feet and reaches for me… not when he lifts my shirt over my head and kisses the hollow beneath my jaw like he’s sorry and grateful and wrecked all at once… not when he kneels in front of me and whispers my name against the inside of my thigh like a prayer.
I justfeel.
All I can do is feel what he can’t say.
The first timewe came together, it was wild.
The second time, it was desperate.
This time… it’s slow… intentional… soul-deep.
He lays me down on the bed and strips every piece of clothing from my body like he’s unwrapping a wound and healing it with every touch.
He kisses my scars, though they’re not even close to his. He kisses my ribs, five of which Tyler previously broke. He kisses the inside of my wrist just over my racing pulse. He takes his time and worships me, and I feel everything he’s not able to say. And when he finally sinks inside of me and gasps my name, “Blakelyn… sweet Blakelyn,” I cry out like it’s the first time I’ve ever been touched.
Maybe it is.
Because this isn’t sex.
This is something else.
Something that feels like forgiveness. And surrender.
And maybe—God help me—something likehome.
We’re both just breathing after another intense orgasm that touched my very soul. His fingers are lightly drifting up and down my arm from my shoulder to my wrist and I’m tracing the edge of the scar that climbs from his side to his neck. He makes no move toward the door… for once, he stays.
He’s wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I want to ask him what he’s thinking but I already know. Because I’m thinking the same damn thing.
If we let ourselves believe this is real… we won’t survive it if it breaks.
