Contributing Conduct #3
She sat beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of whatever she'd been cooking. Close enough that I could feel her warmth through the space between us.
"I need to see what they're saying," I said, my voice hoarse, raw.
"They don't know what happened. They weren't there."
The words were meant to comfort, but they landed wrong, scraping against my raw edges. "Neither were you."
I regretted it the instant it left my mouth. Saw her flinch like I'd struck her, saw her blue eyes go wide and then wet, saw her face crumple in a way that made my heart constrict painfully.
"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, desperate and clumsy. "I didn't mean—"
"I know you're scared." Her voice was thick with unshed tears, each word controlled, like she was barely holding it together. "But you don't get to push me away."
"I'm not trying to."
"Feels like you are." She looked at me with those enormous eyes, and I could see the hurt in them, the fear that maybe I'd use this crisis as an excuse to shut her out, to retreat into the walls I'd spent so long building.
She was right. I was pushing. Because if she got too close, she'd see what everyone else was seeing, that maybe I had fucked up.
That maybe saving my crew wasn't worth destroying six families' lives.
That maybe the Portugal-born immigrant with the intimidating tattoos and all the war trauma should have just followed orders like she was supposed to.
And if she saw that, if she saw me as clearly as those news cameras did, she might realize I wasn't worth the trouble. Wasn't worth loving. Wasn't worth standing by while the world tore me apart.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything I couldn't say.
Then Vera moved. Just slipped wordlessly into my arms, pressing her face against my neck, her small frame fitting perfectly against mine like she'd been made to occupy exactly this space. Her arms wound around my neck, holding on like I might disappear if she loosened her grip.
"Sorry," she whispered into my skin, and I could feel her tears, hot against my cheek.
"Why are you apologizing?" The question came out broken, confused. "I'm the one who snapped at you."
"Because you're hurting and I can't fix it." Her voice cracked on the last word. "Because I love you and I want to make this better and I can't."
All the anger and fear and humiliation that had been building since I'd walked out of that station came pouring out, and suddenly I was crying, too.
"I'm sorry," I rasped. "I'm so sorry. You're the only good thing in my life right now and I almost—"
"Shh." Her hands came up to frame my face, her thumbs wiping away tears. "I'm not going anywhere. I told you—you don't get to push me away. I won't let you."
I looked at her through blurred vision, this woman who'd somehow seen past all my sharp edges and jagged pieces and decided I was worth loving anyway.
Her eyes were red from crying, her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly messy from burying her face against my neck.
She looked so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her.
"I love you," I said, because it was the only truth I had left. "God, Vera, I love you so much."
"I love you too." She leaned in, her lips finding mine in a kiss that tasted like salt and forgiveness. "So much, baby. So, so much."
The kiss deepened, shifting from gentle to desperate. I needed her closer, needed to feel something other than the crushing weight of failure and shame. My hands found her waist, pulling her onto my lap, and she came willingly, straddling me without breaking the kiss.
"Petra," she breathed against my mouth, and the way she said my name made heat coil low in my belly, chasing away the cold dread that had settled there.
"Need you," I said roughly, my hands sliding up her back, feeling the delicate knobs of her spine through her thin sweater. "Please, Vera. I just need—"
"I know." Her hands were in my hair now, tugging gently, sending sparks of pleasure through my scalp. "I know what you need."
Dinner was forgotten. The burned-out homes and the news coverage and the suspension—all of it faded into background noise as Vera kissed me with a consuming intensity that made the rest of the world disappear.
Her hands moved to the hem of my shirt, fingers skating across bare skin, and I gasped into her mouth.
I stood without breaking the kiss, my hands under her thighs, supporting her weight easily.
She wrapped her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck, trusting me completely to carry her.
The walk to our bedroom felt both endless and far too short, and when I laid her down on our bed, she looked up at me with eyes darkened with want and love and absolute faith.
"Show me," she whispered, reaching for me. "Show me that you're still here. That we're still us."
I captured her mouth again, losing myself in the taste of her, in the soft sounds she made, in the way her body arched into mine. Outside, the world thought I was a villain. Inside these walls, I was just Petra, flawed and broken and desperately in love with the woman beneath me.
It was the only thing holding me together.