26. Winter
WINTER
I just got home from ballet practice, still feeling warm and fuzzy from the ride back on Tristan’s bike.
There’s nothing like pressing into his back, the steady rumble of the engine beneath me, letting him take the lead so I can finally shut my brain off.
No music to count, no mirrors to glare at me, no pressure, just him and the road and the feeling that I’m safe.
I stayed late tonight, pushing myself until my muscles burned, trying to perfect my routine.
I’ve got a solo performance coming up, and it’ll affect my grade if I don’t give it everything I have.
It’s not some big show, not something that will lead to a career in a company, but I want to do well anyway.
I’ve told Tristan about my dream of teaching ballet to foster children, of giving them something steady to hold on to when the world keeps taking things away.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t tell me it was unrealistic.
He’s already been sending me listings for buildings that could work. He believes in it. He believes in me.
Lately, it’s been hard to think about anything that isn’t him. Not in the bad way, like when grief and fear used to swallow me whole, but in the best way. In the way where I’m so freaking happy that I just want more and more of him.
Tristan wakes in the middle of the night sometimes still.
I feel it the second his body jerks, the way his hand clamps around me, pulling me flush to his chest. He whispers, “You’re here,” like he needs to hear it out loud, like he’s reminding himself that the life we’re building together is real.
Then he always sinks back into sleep while holding me too tight to ever let me slip away.
We haven’t fixed every traumatic thing we’ve been through. We probably never will. But God, it feels like we’ve finally made it out of the dark water we’d been treading, trying to keep our heads above water.
I’m in our room, slipping out of my leotard and tights when I hear the rush of water. The sound pulls me toward the bathroom, and that’s when the scent hits me. It’s my favorite, bergamot, warm and sweet. I smile to myself because Tristan is running me a bath.
When I step inside the fancy bathroom completely nude, my chest floods with warmth.
Tristan is standing there in just his boxer briefs, steam curling around him, and I know instantly he plans to get in with me.
My heart stutters at the thought. We have always been bonded in a way that is so unbreakable.
I can hardly contain the love rising in me, pressing against my ribs like it wants out.
He hasn’t said it yet, those words I ache to hear, and I’d never push him.
But if I’m not careful, I’ll blurt them out to him.
“You did all of this for me?” My voice is softer than I mean for it to be, my eyes catching on every detail.
Rose petals float across the water, scattered over the edge of the tub.
He’s lighting candles that are flickering on the counters.
I realize he planned this long before he picked me up from the dance studio.
He glances up from the match in his hand, that quiet, devastating smile tugging at his mouth. “Do you like it?”
Do I like it? My throat tightens as I watch him blow out the match once he’s satisfied that all of the candles are lit. He doesn’t even understand what this means to me. What he means.
I nod, wonder sparking in my chest, and then he’s moving toward me.
His head dips, his lips finding mine in a kiss that makes me forget how sore I am, how tired.
He lifts me like he was made to hold me, carrying me to the tub.
His hand dips into the water first, testing, always making sure I’m safe, before he lowers me carefully into the warmth, the scent of bergamot curling up around us.
“Oh my God, you have no idea how good this feels.” I sink deeper into the bubbles and water, the heat seeping into my sore muscles. “I’m so sore from practice today.”
Tristan frowns at me, the crease between his brows making my chest ache. It shouldn’t make me happy that he looks mad at my muscles for hurting me. It’s really kind of endearing though that he cares, always, about every little thing that has to do with me.
“Come on, get in with me,” I tease, scooping a handful of bubbles and blowing them in his direction.
His mouth curves into a smile, but then he leans down and kisses me hard, thoroughly enough to leave me breathless.
My eyes flick lower, and I can see how hard he is beneath his dark boxer briefs.
Heat flares in my cheeks as I slide my wet hand down his warm stomach until I cup the thick bulge straining against the fabric.
He groans, breaking the kiss, his voice rough. “I have something to show you. And if you keep touching me, I’ll forget about everything except getting as deep inside you as I possibly can.”
I rest my arms on the edge of the tub, watching as he disappears into our room. He’s only gone a moment before he returns, and my heart stops when I see what he’s holding.
His leatherbound journals.
I gasp. My throat clogs because Tristan Vale, who rarely lets anyone see inside his head, is standing there with his secrets in his hands.
His cheeks actually flush as he looks away, then back.
The sight of him blushing about what he’s about to show me is a sight so heartbreakingly sweet I almost tear up.
He crouches beside the tub, hands me a small towel to dry my fingers before he passes one of the books over.
“Are you sure?” I whisper, clutching it like it might dissolve in the steam. “I’ve always been curious, but this has to be so private.”
His palm comes up to cup the side of my head, fingers stroking gently through my damp hair. “Baby, these aren’t journal entries about my life. They’re for you… to you, I mean. Open it.”
I sink deeper into the water, my pulse thundering, and flip the cover open. His handwriting is neat, meticulous, and the sight of my name on the page makes my breath catch.
Behind me, I hear the rustle of fabric. His boxer briefs hit the floor, and then he’s sliding into the water, the heat rippling around us as he settles against my back. His lips brush my ear, his voice low and reverent.
“Read to me this time, dushen’ka.”
I clear my throat, the words sinking heavy in my chest where I’ll keep them forever, and then I read aloud to Tristan.
ENTRY ONE: I met you today, and you are nothing short of lovely.
I have never wanted to know someone so much in my life.
I have this intense need to be near you, and I’ve never felt that way about anyone before.
In fact, I usually do my best to avoid everyone.
I’m going to do my best not to scare you more than you already are, but I hope someday you can trust me.
I’ll always protect you, I can promise you that, and I never break a promise.
My voice shakes with emotion because he’s literally kept a log of every single thought he’s ever had about us. My hands tremble as I turn the page, and then another, and then another. Each entry is a piece of Tristan I’ve never seen before, his heart pressed into ink for me alone.
ENTRY FIFTY-TWO: You laughed today, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so pure. I don’t laugh much myself, but I realized today that I’d do anything to make you smile like that again. Everyone else fades away when you’re around. It’s only you I see. Only you I want to hear.
ENTRY ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT: You told me about your grandmother’s locket today and how you never met her or your mother.
You said that little circle was the only piece of them you had.
Someone kept it when they moved you to another foster home.
You trusted me with that, and it means everything to me.
I don’t know how yet, but I swear I’ll get it back for you.
“I have been searching for it every single day. We thought we found it a few times, but it wasn’t the same one.
But I can assure you, I never break a promise,” Tristan says, and there’s something comforting in his tone.
Like it’s already done, like he’s so certain he could never break a promise to me.
It doesn’t escape me that Tristan doesn’t make promises to anyone else.I flip forward, my chest tight, my throat aching.
I’m torn because I want to know everything in these books, but at the same time I want to slow down because I know I’ll never be able to experience this feeling for the first time again.
ENTRY TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTEEN: I started teaching myself the Russian language the same day I learned you learned to speak it as a child.
I practice a little each night because I want a part of you that no one else can have.
No one else in your life now speaks anything other than English, so this will be special, just for us.
I’ll whisper it to you someday, and maybe you’ll understand just how much I need to belong to you.
I bite my lip hard, but the tears still sting, still threaten. The candlelight flickering over the pages somehow makes all of this even more romantic.
ENTRY FOUR HUNDRED AND NINETY: I hate when people look at you too long.
I hate that they think they’re allowed to.
They don’t know you the way I know you, and they never will.
They don’t deserve the privilege of your attention.
Sometimes I think about breaking their faces, just to remind them you’re not theirs to see.
You’re mine. You always will be, even if you don’t know it yet, someday you will.
“I’ve been obsessed with you since the beginning. It sounds erratic and over the top, but I meant…and still do…every single word,” Tristan says unapologetically. I don’t want him to apologize for the way he feels about me. I love it, I treasure every single thought he wrote down for me.
I turn more pages, faster now, devouring every line. All the while, Tristan presses his mouth to my shoulder, the side of my throat, the crown of my head, his lips claiming.
ENTRY EIGHT HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FIVE: It fucking hurts. My chest aches when you’re not close enough to touch. I love you, dushen’ka.
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it.
My hand shakes on the page. I can hardly breathe from the sheer devotion he has for me.
Years of it without wavering, he has loved me so wholly in silence.
I feel honored, yes. But more than that, I feel claimed.
I feel wanted in a way I never thought possible.
Tristan lifts the journal from my hands and sets it on the edge of the tub, and I make a mental note to spend the rest of my life pouring over his words.
His fingers brush my wrist as he turns me in his arms to face him.
I gasp at the feel of him, at how right this feels.
Tristan presses his mouth to my upper cheek and kisses the tears falling there like they’re meant for him.
His hand slips between us and, gentle and sure, he guides me down on top of his hardness until I’m fully seated on him.
His hips lift, trying to make sure he’s as deep inside of me as he can possibly get.
He buries his face in my neck, and his voice is low and raw when he says the thing I’ve wanted to hear for so long.
“I wasn’t alive, not really, until I met you,” he whispers, hot against my skin. “I’ve loved you from the very beginning. I’ve needed you since that day. I knew the instant our eyes met that you were meant for me.”
I cup his face and kiss him hard and slow, and for a long moment we don’t move. We simply exist in the same space, breathing the same breath, letting our bodies settle together.
“I love you, dushen’ka,” he says, every syllable a vow. “I need you to know that. It’s more than that. It’s everything. You are every single thing in this life to me.”
The sound of Tristan’s voice breaks something open in me.
I tip my head up and press my lips to his again, tasting him, feeling every part of him against me.
“I love you, Tristan,” I answer, and the truth comes out perfectly without me having to think about what I should say to him to convey how I feel.
“I wished for you before I knew what I was wishing for. I wished for a family to make me feel whole, to care for me as much as I care for them. To belong somewhere, to someone. You gave me that, and I knew I wanted to be that for you too as soon as we met. It’s a connection I could never explain even if I tried. ”
Tristan’s hand settles on my hip and whispers it again like he’s tattooing the words into me. “I love you. I love you. I love you. Now that I’ve said it, I’ll never stop.”