Chapter 10 #2
“I learned pretty quick that it didn't matter what I wanted in this situation because it wasn't just about me. It was what was best for the family.” Although, in the end, it was what my mother blamed for the breakup.
“It didn't matter if I begged to stay, or promised to be perfect, or cried until I made myself sick. We were moving regardless.” I picked at a thread on the throw pillow. “So I stopped asking. Stopped wanting things to stay the same. Stopped expecting my needs to matter.”
“Artie...”
“And I guess that carried over into... other things.” I took a deep breath. This was the hard part. The part I'd never told anyone. “Things I... feel some shame and embarrassment about.”
“You can tell me anything, but you don't have to. Just, you know, I will always be your safe person, just like you said.”
I sighed. “I'm... not good at, well, anything in the bedroom. Guys have told me I'm bad. In bed.”
The silence stretched between us. I couldn't look at him.
“Who told you that?” His voice was surprisingly angry.
I forced myself to continue. “The people I've slept with. They all wanted me to be the dominant one. In charge. I think it's because I'm tall and strong and athletic, so obviously I must want to throw them around and take control, right?”
“I get it, babe. Guys I’ve been with have always expected me to be the dominant one as well. It’s just automatically assumed that I am going to be one topping, I never get a chance to try anything else.” He gave a little shrug that I instantly understood. “But that’s not always what I want.”
“That’s totally not what I want.” The words came out in a rush.
“In the rest of my life, I have to be the strong, independent woman.
But that's exhausting, honestly. Sometimes I want to be taken care of. I want someone to be gentle with me. I want to be able to be soft and vulnerable and have someone notice what I need without me having to be in charge of everything.”
I finally looked at him. He was staring at me with an expression I couldn't read.
“That's what I need to learn,” I said quietly. “How to be present in my body when I'm with someone. How to trust someone to take care of me. How to ask for what I want without feeling selfish or needy or... embarrassed about it.”
“You're not selfish for wanting that.”
“Aren't I though? I've been told by three different guys and two women that I'm basically a dead fish in bed. And honestly, it's made me question my own sexuality. But... like, guys are hot, women are hot, it's not like it's a choice I made to be bi. I just... am.”
“They were wrong.” His voice was firm, almost angry. “They were completely wrong.”
“Were they? Because the evidence suggests otherwise.”
He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Artie, wanting to be taken care of doesn't make you bad at intimacy. It makes you human. And it sounds like some of the people you were with just fetishized you.”
“But I don't know how to communicate any of that.
I open my mouth to say anything and freeze up.
I don't know how to be vulnerable like that with someone I'm dating.” I met his eyes.
“That's why I need your help. You already take care of me without me having to ask. You got me water. You steadied me when I stumbled. You unlocked the door. You do these things naturally.”
“Because I—“ He stopped abruptly.
“Because you're my best friend,” I finished for him.
“Which is why you're perfect for this. You already know how to take care of me. And you have no idea how much I appreciate that. But I have to learn how to ask for it. How to be present for it instead of freezing up or performing what I think someone wants. Just like rugby, I need to practice the skills until they feel natural.”
He was quiet for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I don't know. Start small, like Tempest said? Eye contact. Hand holding. Maybe work up to... other things. Kissing. Touching.” I felt my face heat. “Just so I can practice being present and asking for what I need without the pressure of it being a real romantic situation.”
“Right. Practice.”
“We could start with something small,” I said suddenly, sitting up. “To see if we can even do this.”
“Now?” His voice cracked slightly.
“Tempest said to start with eye contact, right? That's pretty basic. We look at each other all the time.”
“We do?”
“Well, yeah. But she probably meant... sustained eye contact. Intentional.” I shifted to face him properly, tucking one leg under me. “Let's try it.”
“Artie, you're tipsy—“
“I'm relaxed. There's a difference.” I reached out and took both his hands in mine. “Please? Just for, like, thirty seconds. If it's too weird, we stop and never speak of it again.”
He stared at our joined hands for a moment, then looked up at me. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I took a breath. “So we just... look at each other. Really look. No talking, no looking away.”
“For thirty seconds.”
I popped up the stopwatch timer on my phone. “Starting... now.”
Our eyes met, and immediately I understood why Tempest had suggested this.
Looking at Gryff, really looking at him, was different from the casual eye contact of everyday conversation.
His eyes were blue but with flecks of green I'd never noticed before, darkening to almost forest green around the edges.
Ten seconds in, and my heart was beating faster. There was something intense about being seen like this, about seeing him. Without words to fill the space, without the ability to look away, it felt like he could see straight through all my defenses.
Fifteen seconds. His pupils had dilated, making his eyes look darker. His thumbs were brushing over my knuckles, probably unconsciously. I could feel the warmth of his hands, slightly rough from football, but gentle in how they held mine.
Twenty seconds. The air between us felt charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. I was hyperaware of everything, the sound of our breathing, the way his chest rose and fell, the fact that we'd moved closer without meaning to.
Twenty-five seconds. His gaze dropped to my lips for just a fraction of a second before returning to my eyes. My breath caught. The room felt too warm. This was supposed to be practice, but it felt like—
Thirty seconds and the chimes played on my phone.
Neither of us looked away.
We sat there, frozen, still holding hands, still maintaining that intense eye contact. The space between us had shrunk to almost nothing. I could feel his breath on my face. When had we gotten so close?
“Artie,” he said, his voice rough.
“Yeah?”
“The thirty seconds are up.”
“Oh.” But I didn't move back. Neither did he. “That was...”
“Intense.”
“Very intense.” My voice came out breathier than intended. “Is it supposed to feel like that?”
“I don't know.” His eyes dropped to my lips again, lingered this time. “How did it feel?”
“Like...” I struggled to find words. “Like being plugged into an electrical socket. But in a good way?”
He laughed softly, and I felt it more than heard it. “I was going to say something about lightning.”
“My heart's racing.” Without thinking, I took one of his hands and placed it over my heart. “See?”
His hand was warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and his expression shifted to something I couldn't read. “Mine too,” he said quietly.
“Really?” I moved my free hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heartbeat under my palm. “Oh.”
We stayed like that, hands on each other's hearts, eyes locked, and I suddenly understood why people wrote poetry about moments like this. The air between us was alive with possibility, with something unnamed but undeniable.
He leaned in slightly, maybe unconsciously, and I found myself mirroring the movement. His eyes were so dark, bottomless, this close, and his lips were right there, and all I had to do was…
The chimes on my phone got louder, crescendoing.
“That was—“ I started.
“Good practice,” he said quickly, but his voice was still rough. “Really good... practice.”
“Right. Practice.” I tucked my hair behind my ear, trying to calm my racing heart. “I think this is going to work.”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “It's going to work.”
I shifted on the couch, not sure whether to move closer or farther away. The moment had passed, but the tension was still there, humming under my skin like an itch I couldn't scratch.
We sat there in awkward silence for a moment, not moving, waiting for the other to do the next thing.
“Gryff?”
“Yeah?”
“I'm really glad you're my best friend.”
He wrapped an arm around me and tucked my head against his shoulder in the soft, comforting snuggle I needed. “Me too.”
I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me, the way his heartbeat had raced under my hand, the way we'd almost…
No. It was just the intensity of the exercise. The vulnerability of the moment. The margaritas.
It didn't mean anything. It couldn't. Because I needed my best friend to be exactly that. Lovers would come and go, but Gryff... he was home in a way I never thought was possible.
I must have fallen asleep in his arms on the couch, because I woke up there with a blanket over me. I felt surprisingly good for someone who'd spent the evening drinking margaritas and making questionable life decisions.
Actually, I felt great. No headache, no nausea, no regret-induced stomach churning that usually accompanied my morning-after experiences. I lay there for a moment, trying to figure out why I felt so clear-headed when I distinctly remembered at least three drinks.
Then it hit me.
Flynn didn't drink. And both twins were in the middle of serious preparation for their rookie seasons. There was no way Tempest would have served us actual alcohol when her fiancé was maintaining strict training discipline.
Those margaritas had been mocktails.
Which meant I hadn't been tipsy at all last night.