Page 105 of My Best Friend Is Broken
I believe him. My crazy, fucked-up mind and battered soul believe him. Not because he’s promised nothing bad will ever happen, that would be a lie we’d both recognize. But because he’s promised he’ll never let me go, that he’ll always come for me, that I’m his in a way that transcends ownership and enters something deeper, more fundamental.
I belong to Nicky. Everyone knows it. And now, for the first time since I was eighteen, I feel safe. Truly, deeply safe in a way that doesn’t depend on locked doors or security cameras or bodyguards in cars. Safe in the bone-deep certainty that I matter to someone, that I’m worth fighting for, worth burning down the world to protect.
This is everything I wanted, without the toxicity. We’ve achieved the goal in a safe, sane and consensual way. Notthrough force or domination or the recreation of prison dynamics, but through mutual choice and commitment and the slow building of trust.
It feels like accidentally stumbling across the exit of a labyrinth we’ve been trapped in. It’s almost too good to be true, this sense of having finally found the answer to a question I’ve been asking for without knowing how to articulate it.
“Besides,” says Nicky with a grin that I can hear in his voice even with my eyes closed, “look at how much ass you kicked today. You don’t need a protector.”
A smile twitches my lips despite everything. “Nicky, you are so sweet. Dealing with one life and death situation doesn’t mean I’m fixed.”
“I know,” he agrees easily, simply and effortlessly.
As if the knowledge that he is going to have to help carry the weight of my damage for the rest of our lives is no big deal. As if loving someone broken, is just what you do, not a burden to be borne but a choice to be celebrated.
The casual acceptance of it, the complete lack of resentment or frustration, makes something warm bloom in my chest. This is real. This is lasting. This is the kind of love that doesn’t give up when things get hard.
My heart pounds, and butterflies dance in my stomach. Not from fear this time, but from something else entirely. Something that feels suspiciously like joy.
I lean forward and kiss my Nicky with all of the love in my heart.
He moans softly against my mouth and kisses me back. Tenderly, passionately, lovingly. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone with infinitegentleness, like I’m something precious that might break if he’s not careful.
I sink into it and allow everything else to fall away. The fear, the trauma, the lingering adrenaline, all of it fades into background noise as I focus on the warmth of his lips, the solid reality of his body pressed against mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing that my own gradually syncs to.
Eventually, we fall asleep like that. Wrapped around each other, breathing in sync, safe in the cocoon we’ve created. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t have nightmares.
Iwake to pale predawn filtering through the curtains and the sound of traffic beginning its morning symphony outside. For a moment, I’m disoriented. The bed is wrong, the light is wrong, something fundamental about my surroundings doesn’t match my expectations.
Then I remember. Home. I’m home, in our bed, safe in our apartment. Not in prison, not in a Russian safe house, but home with Nicky sleeping peacefully beside me.
I turn my head carefully, not wanting to wake him, and just watch him for a moment. In sleep, his face loses some of its careful control, softening into something younger and more vulnerable. His dark hair is mussed against the pillow, and there’s a small crease between his eyebrows like even in sleep he’s worrying about something.
Probably me. Almost certainly me.
Moving as carefully as I can, I extract myself from the tangle of limbs and blankets. Nicky makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t wake, just reaches out for the pillowI leave behind and pulls it close like a substitute for my warmth.
The apartment is quiet as I pad to the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. The abandoned tea-making supplies from last night are still scattered on the counter. The kettle, long gone cold, the mugs waiting empty, the tea bags sitting forlorn in their box.
I fill the kettle and set it to boil, then set about making myself a proper cup of tea. The routine is soothing. Familiar motions that require no thought, just muscle memory and the comfort of repetition. Tea bag in mug, hot water poured, splash of milk, gentle stir.
I’m halfway through my first sip when I hear movement from the bedroom. The soft shuffle of feet, the creak of floorboards, the small sounds that mean Nicky is awake.
Without thinking about it, I reach for the coffee tin and start making his morning cup. He takes his first cup of the day black with one sugar, strong enough that lesser mortals would probably consider it a health hazard. I’ve got the timing down perfectly now, so by the time he appears in the kitchen doorway, sleep-rumpled and squinting against the light, his coffee is ready and waiting.
“Morning,” he mumbles, accepting the mug I hold out to him with a grateful sound.
I don’t answer with words, just step close and press a quick, affectionate kiss to his lips. He tastes like sleep and home, and the casual intimacy of it makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
He takes a long drink of his coffee, eyes closing in appreciation, then reaches for my hand with his free one.
“Come on,” he says, tugging me gently toward the living room. “Let’s watch the sunrise.”
We take our drinks over to the large window that dominates the living room, the one that offers a view of London sprawling out below us. Dawn in winter comes late, so the city is already fully awake. Lights are flickering in windows across the skyline, while the first rays of sun paint the clouds in shades of pink and gold.
We stand there in comfortable silence, sipping our drinks and watching colors return to the world. Nicky’s arm finds its way around my waist, and I lean into him, letting him take some of my weight while we watch the day begin.
“What day is it?” I ask, suddenly realizing I’ve completely lost track.
