Page 190 of Wrong Pucking Player

“Since we broke up.”

His honesty leaves us in a staring match before I give in and sigh.

“Wyatt, regardless of your health, I’m not going to—”

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes.

I’m forced to look up into his eyes, noticing his seriousness before he lowers his head, as though he’s bowing to emphasize his apology.

“Everything you pointed out was right. The way I’ve been treating you. The lack of communication and my inability to invite you to events and gatherings that deserved your presence. I treaded through this all wrong, and now I’m left feeling empty and stupid for not realizing things earlier,” he explains.

“I want to make it clear that in no way, shape, or form am I embarrassed to have you in my life. To have you by my side, even when we never made it official publicly. I thought I’d be protecting you… and this was the only way that made sense in my mind, but I understand that by keeping you at arm’s distance, I was making you feel like you weren’t important to me. As if you’re literally not the light of hope that guides me home whenever I feel lost in the darkness.”

My heart swells at his words.

This is a big deal for Wyatt. He’s not the type to vocalize his flaws. It’s not as hard for him to apologize like other men, but he normally needs to think about the incident or contributing scenarios that led to him being at fault before he can acknowledge it.

For him to set aside his pride and admit he was wrong.

“I fucked up, and I know you’ve moved forward. As you should. I can accept the consequences of not… having you as my girl… but…” He takes a moment to admire me with those blue eyes of his. “Please, Xandra. Don’t completely eliminate me from your life. Even though I deserve whatever punishment you think is most deserving, please Wildflower. I don’t think I can get through this without you.”

I want to be stubborn. To not fall for this, just in case it’s some type of ploy, but then I know Wyatt.

My Wyatt.

The man I’ve known for a decade, despite the years we’ve been distant.

“Fine.” I can’t help but cave in. “I forgive you.” But he has to earn me again. “But you don’t get the same access you had to me like before,” I emphasize. “To kiss me and fuck me when you want. Those privileges are gone… and have to be earned. If you want something from me, you have to ask unless I deem it okay. If you’re not okay with that, this won’t work.”

I’m surprised at the firmness in my voice. That I’m actually willing to stand up for what I want for myself. Protecting my autonomy is something I never thought of initiating. Sure, there are plenty of times when I envisioned it in my head, but the moment the situation comes to its head, I back away from it out of fear.

This time around, I don’t want to cower away from protecting myself. Protecting the peace that I’m working hard to always secure.

Now, I’m in control of who gets to leave and enter my life, and I need those who I love, respect, and wish to remain in my life to understand such boundaries.

“I can respect that,” Wyatt confesses and looks so relieved, to the point my eyes are widening.

“W-Wait. Why are your eyes watering? Does somewhere else hurt?” I’m panicking because Wyatt Cyrus Jr. is on the verge of crying. “What hurts? I can help!”

“Nothing hurts,” he admits with a sad smile. “I’m just happy that you’re willing to give me another chance… and sad that it came to this. If I’d just… trusted I could be honest with you, even a little bit, it wouldn’t have gotten this far. I wouldn’t have hurt you.” He means those words as he offers his hand between us. I stare down at it, and return my gaze to his as he whispers, “Can I hold your hand?”

Asking permission.

Respecting my boundaries.

“Okay.” I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss his touch.

Placing my hand in his, I watch as he gives me a small squeeze, but then directs my hand up until it lands on a specific spot of his head.

I frown at the touch, noticing the obvious bump there.

Biting my lip while my eyes are peering into his glassy ones, he lets me rub my hand along the spot of his scalp, feeling the uneven surface and the lines of what feels like a scar.

Did he get hurt here? A scar… maybe an opening that got sutured up?

“I was nine,” he quietly begins. “She was four.”

I’m confused about how he’s starting this, but my eyes remain locked with his while my fingers are pressed on that specific spot.

---