Chapter 43
Emmett
I don’t know if I get what he’s saying.
Me?
What’s there to know about the little queer boy I used to be who failed at life the moment I took my first breath?
Does he want to know about the way I hide the defeat I have etched into my skin?
The way that I have a brain inside my head that misfires when I’m around others?
That I don’t know if I’ll ever not startle when someone gets too close?
There’s nothing more to know about me. Nothing worth more than what Tristen already does.
For fuck’s sake, he found me in the hospital. Sick and broken.
Saw me on the bathroom floor just yesterday.
Still sick and broken.
“There’s nothing left to know,” I murmur to my covered fists, and some kind of wounded sound comes from Tristen.
“Sure, there is,” he whispers, his attempt at mirth missed. “Just … let me try? Please, bubbles?”
My stomach twists at the heaviness his tone has taken on, and I dig my nails into the meaty part of my palms. It flexes the skin on my wrist and makes it burn.
There’s rustling and then Tristen is in front of me, his shorts tented as he dips to his knees. He rests his arms on either side of my thighs, not touching, but close enough that I feel him there. Boxing me in.
I want to hate it. I really do.
“Please.”
I swallow hard.
“I’ll beg all night if you make me.”
I don’t know what to do or say. His attention feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
Though, that doesn’t make sense either.
I don’t want it. I don’t.
But he’s on his knees and whispering his pleas that are making my insides too unsteady.
It’s always been me on my knees.
“Tristen,” I choke out and look at him through my hair. “What … what is it you want to know?”
He looks utterly stunned for a brief flash of time before his face breaks open in a smile that stretches his lips and bunches up his cheeks.
This time, it’s me that’s struck frozen in surprise at the sight of that crooked tooth that’s just so …
Pretty.
“I need a map.”
I blink. “A what?”
“Map,” he repeats and pokes his tongue out to wet his lips. My eyes follow the movement without my consent, and it does something inside my stomach. “I want you to show me where I can touch you. Where I need to ask first. And if it ever changes, I want you to tell me that, too.”
That jostles me from watching his mouth form words. “What?”
“Tell me where it’s okay to touch and where it’s not.”
My throat gets thick, and my heart patters inside my chest.
There’s a weighted hopefulness that lights up Tristen’s face and I don’t want to tell him that he shouldn’t want that. That touching me will only make him worse. He shouldn’t want to. He shouldn’t.
What’s worse, though, is that … I don’t know the answer to tell him.
How do I explain that most of the time, hands on me makes my skin crawl? My chest tight? My mind spiral?
How do I tell someone so dead set on doing it that he’s been the only one to ever touch me and it not hurt?
That I don’t know.
The silence that stretches between us gains weight the longer that I say nothing and dims that shine on his face.
I don’t want that.
“I’m s—” I choke the apology back and grit my teeth. “I don’t know.”
The smile he was keeping in place softens and his head tilts.
“That’s okay, bub. Can we … figure it out together?”
Breath short and chest tight, I reluctantly nod.
“What if … what if I can’t?”
That tilt of his lips takes on a sad edge that makes my stomach curl up.
“We can figure that out, too.”
He gets to his feet before I can say anything else and … holds his arms out?
“What are you doing?”
His smile spreads into something more jovial. Lighter. “How about we start with a hug?”
“A … hug?”
“Yeah, y’know, where we like wrap our arms around each other and both let go when one loosens.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “I know what a hug is, Tristen.”
He snorts and flicks his fingers. “Then bring it in, bubbles. Hug me.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I get my legs under me and knee-walk to the edge of the bed.
It takes me a few seconds of staring at his bare chest to get mine to hold my heart in with the way it thunders inside me. Another few seconds of drawing back a deep breath.
I lift my arms and lean closer.
His scent hits me before I can wrap my arms around his ribs, and I stumble.
My knee slips off the edge of the bed, and I fall face first onto his chest.
The pain-filled umf that he makes when he catches me has a sorry sticking to my lips, but when his arms come around me lightly, something inside me just … releases.
My eyes burn and I bury my face in his chest.
It smells like sage and smoke. Leather and safety.
Tears collect on my lashes as I snake my arms beneath his.
“Can I … put my hand in your hair, Em?”
“No.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
I don’t even realize I’m crying completely until he whispers that again.
It’s okay, bubbles. It’s okay.
I hold onto it, and him, as the sobs rack over me so harshly that I tremble. Shake.
“I got you, Emmett. You’re safe with me,” he whispers, his arms tightening around my shoulders, his palm flattening just beneath the folded hood against my upper back.
I cry harder.
Hold him tighter.
It feels so fucking … good.
“Don’t let go,” I half sob, half beg into the skin of his bare chest with eyes squeezed shut and trembling fingers. They poke out of my sleeves and dig into the muscles of his back.
“I won’t,” he says strongly, if not a little strained, and I feel his cheek rest on my head. “Not until you do.”
I swallow back the thickness and the sounds that want to escape me, and nod. “M-m-my hair. Touch my hair.”
His chest expands in my grip.
“Baby, you don’t have to push yourself. I’m here. I’m right here.”
Baby.
Babybabybaby.
A sob bursts passed my lips, and I flatten my cheek to his chest.
His skin on mine … the heat of him—
His heartbeat thunders against me and I suck back a breath. Then another.
My chest loosens.
Another and I feel for him. Sync them as best I can. Focus on that pounding of his life right against my face.
I haven’t been this close to anyone. Not since before.
His fingers move over my shoulders, little circles that smooth over me. I can feel the motion settle all the way down to my stomach that flutters just like it did when I sipped the tea he brought me.
Green tea with blueberries.
I didn’t even know tea could be green.
“T-t-thank you,” I choke out and take what feels like my first full breath.
“What for?”
It’s been so long ago now, at least it feels like it has been. Does he even remember that?
“Tea,” I mumble, and his chuckle is all air that puffs over my head.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
For a long moment, we stay like that. My wet face pressed into his pec, his fingertips dancing just below the knob of my spine.
And when I pull back, his hands slide to my shoulders, mine to his sides.
“Tristen.”
“Yeah, bub?” he whispers back, his eyes locked on mine. They’re shining but clear and so, so brown.
“Will you kiss me?”
His nostrils flare and his thumb swipes beneath my nose.
“There he is.”
I don’t think to ask him what he means before he leans in close enough to feather his lips over mine.
My stomach swoops, and I press harder against him.
A sound that I feel in my hands radiates from him and I gasp.
He leans back quicker than I realize, and I catch myself on his hips.
My sight lands on his nipple, peaked and pink, and I catch my breath.
“Was that … okay?”
His finger finds my chin and lifts my gaze to his rosy cheeks and grinning lips. “Always.”