Chapter 28 – IVY #2
He pauses, then gestures between us, encompassing whatever is building between us, this fragile, newborn thing that neither of us has named yet. O-F… T-H-I-S?
"I'm terrified," I admit with a small laugh. "But not of you. Of letting myself trust again. Of being vulnerable. Of wanting something I might lose."
Understanding darkens the blue depths of his eyes. He knows about loss. About fear. About the courage it takes to reach for something when you've been burned before.
M-E... T-O-O.
Those two simple signs bridge the gap between us more effectively than any elaborate declaration could have. We're both scared. Both damaged. Both taking a risk by even having this conversation.
But we're having it anyway.
"So," I say, offering him a small smile, "now that we've established we're both terrified but interested, can we maybe eat that pho before it gets cold? I'm starving."
The tension breaks, a surprised huff of air escaping him that might be the closest thing to a laugh he can manage. With a nod, he turns back to the coffee table where he's laid out an impressive spread of food.
There are two large containers of pho, the rich broth still steaming slightly. Beside them sit plates of fresh herbs, bean sprouts, lime wedges, and jalapenos. There's also a plate of spring rolls, a container of dumplings, and what looks like three different kinds of noodle dishes.
"Did you buy out the entire restaurant?" I ask, eyeing the feast with wide eyes.
Wraith's shoulders lift in a sheepish shrug. His hands sign, D-I-D-N-T... K-N-O-W... W-H-A-T... Y-O-U... L-I-K-E-D.
"So you got everything," I finish for him, warmth blooming in my chest at the thoughtfulness of the gesture.
He nods, watching me carefully as if gauging my reaction.
"It's perfect," I say. "Thank you."
We settle onto the couch. He's so big, his knee brushes against mine even though we're on different cushions. The contact sends a jolt through me, but I pretend not to notice as I reach for one of the containers of pho.
The rich, savory scent of the broth fills my nostrils as I remove the lid, making my mouth water instantly. I add a handful of bean sprouts, some basil leaves, and a squeeze of lime, then stir it all together with my chopsticks. I hadn't fully realized just how hungry I am until now.
Wraith hasn't touched his food yet. He sits perfectly still, watching me with those intense blue eyes.
"Aren't you going to eat?" I ask, gesturing to his container.
He hesitates, and the realization hits me like a truck. He can't eat with his mask on, and he's afraid to take it off in front of me. And if I'm hungry, he must be starving with his alpha metabolism.
"Oh," I say softly. "I'm sorry, I didn't think..."
With quick movements, he signs that it's okay.
But it's clearly not okay. The tension has returned to his shoulders, his eyes darting away from mine.
"We could watch a movie," I suggest, an idea forming. "I could sit on the couch with my back to you. That way you could eat without worrying about me seeing."
He shakes his head hard and signs again. I… W-I-L-L… E-A-T-… T-H-E-R-E.
He points to the window. Outside. To the roof.
"Please don't do that. I promise, I won't look."
Wraith stares at me, his blue eyes searching mine. He looks freaking terrified. His massive hands lift between us, signing stiffly.
Y-O-U... W-O-U-L-D... R-U-N.
I shake my head firmly. "I won't run."
A-N-D... S-C-R-E-A-M.
"I won't scream either," I promise him, holding his gaze steadily. "Wraith, you can trust me. I won't look. And... I've already seen some of your face, remember? When your mask slipped earlier?"
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I see the impact they have on him. His eyes widen, pupils constricting to pinpricks in a sea of terrified blue. It's like watching someone's worst nightmare unfold in real-time.
Oh god. I'd hoped that would reassure him. But there's raw panic in his eyes as his hands lift again, the signs jerky and unsteady. A few are aborted halfway through before he pauses as if to ground himself before signing more slowly this time.
H-O-W... M-U-C-H... D-I-D... Y-O-U... S-E-E?
I hesitate, torn between not wanting to cause him more distress but knowing I need to be honest with him. "Maybe... a quarter of it?" I answer carefully. "The right side of your face, where your... where your cheek should—"
T-E-E-T-H? he signs, the movements so sharp and jerky I almost miss it.
I try to swallow the lump in my throat. "Yes," I say softly, hating that I have to confirm his fears but knowing lying to him would only make things worse in the long run.
A strangled growl tears from his throat, a sound of pure anguish that makes me flinch. His hands begin to shake so violently he can't form coherent signs anymore. One palm presses against his masked lower face, as if making sure the fabric is still in place, while the other digs into his hair.
"Wraith—" I start, trying to move closer to him, but he's already getting up and moving toward the window. Every line of his body is coiled tight with the need to flee.
He's having a panic attack. And he's going to bolt.
"Wraith, wait. Please." Without thinking, I reach for him, my hand settling gently on his forearm.
He freezes at my touch, muscles rock-hard with tension beneath my fingers. His eyes lock with mine, filled with such agony that it physically hurts to look at him.
"It's okay," I murmur, keeping my voice soft and steady. "It doesn't change anything. It doesn't matter what you look like. Not to me."
He stares at me, disbelief warring with desperate hope in those tortured blue eyes.
I run my palm up and down his arm in what I hope is a soothing gesture, feeling the scars there that I hadn't noticed before.
Similar ones mark his hands, concentrated on his palms—rough, textured just like the scars on his collarbone and chest, but not as intensely damaged.
He flinches when my fingers brush over them, but he doesn't pull away.
"It's okay," I repeat softly. "I'm still here, Wraith. You're still you. I didn't run then, and I'm not running now."
Emboldened by his stillness, I reach up with my other hand.
I hesitate for just a moment, giving him time to stop me, but he remains frozen, watching me with those haunted eyes.
Gently, I stroke his dark hair. It's surprisingly soft.
His eyes close briefly at my touch, a shudder running through his massive frame.
"You don't have to show me anything you're not comfortable with," I continue, still stroking his hair, carding my fingers through the choppy layers. "But I want you to be able to eat with me. And I promise, Wraith, I promise I won't look."
Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, he leans into my touch. A low, shuddering sigh rushes out of him.
He's touch-starved, I realize.
Just like me.
He opens his eyes again to watch me for what feels like an eternity, those blue eyes searching mine for any sign of deception or disgust. Finding none, he finally gives a small, hesitant nod.
"You want me to turn around?" I clarify, relieved. But I want to make absolutely sure I understand what he's agreeing to.
Another nod, this one more definite.
"Okay," I say, giving his arm a final reassuring squeeze before shifting on the couch. "How about I lean on you? With my back to you?"
He nods a third time.
I turn on the couch, positioning myself so my back is to him, my legs crossed beneath me.
I can feel the heat of his body behind me, the couch dipping slightly under his weight.
"How's this?" I ask, resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder.
But I don't resist the urge to scoot back until I'm leaning on him.
A soft rumble of assent vibrates through my back. He's still so tense, but a bit less so than he was a minute ago.
"I'm going to start eating now," I tell him, reaching for my container of pho. "And I won't turn around until you tell me I can. Just tap me on the shoulder, okay? Three times."
Another rumble.
The silence is broken only by the soft sounds of me stirring my soup. Then, after what feels like an eternity, I hear the rustle of fabric behind me. The sound of his mask being lowered. He's more tense than ever now, his muscles locked tight against my back.
I keep my promise, focusing intently on my food. The broth is rich and flavorful, the noodles perfectly cooked. I take a bite of a spring roll, the crisp wrapper giving way to the savory filling inside.
This is the best pho I've ever had.
Behind me, I hear the soft tap of chopsticks against the container. Otherwise, he's completely silent, to the extent it feels deliberate. His breathing seems shallow, as if he's barely allowing himself to relax even now.
"This is really good," I say, trying to fill the silence, to make this feel more normal for both of us. "Thank you. I haven't had pho in... god, I don't even know how long."
A soft grunt of acknowledgment is his only response, but it's something. A sign that he's listening, that he's still there and hasn't completely shut down.
"Do you want to watch something while we eat?" I suggest, nodding toward the TV. "We could put on a movie or something."
There's a pause, then the sound of movement behind me. I hear him reach for something—the remote, I assume—and he scrolls through options before settling on an old Western.
"Perfect," I say, taking another bite of my pho.
We eat in companionable silence for a while, the movie providing a welcome distraction. I focus on the screen, on my food, on anything but the temptation to turn around. It's surprisingly hard to sit with someone, especially someone I'm this attracted to, without looking at them at all.
When I finish my pho, I set it on the coffee table and lean against him fully, closing my eyes, resting the back of my head on his shoulder. He leans into me, too, but only slightly. He'd fold me in half otherwise.