Chapter 14
Blakelyn
I don’t know how long I lie on his floor after he leaves, mumbling something about needing to get back to the shop to relieve Reece.
My shorts and panties are stuck to the back of my legs, the fabric damp with sweat and sex and the kind of emotional combustion that leaves a person feeling gutted and high all at once.
The door didn’t slam when he left. He said he was going back to work as he stood up, re-zipped his jeans, and looked at me like he wasn’t sure if I was real or what he was supposed to say after fucking me on his kitchen table…
again. I didn’t come over here for this.
I came to let him know that I knew he left again and that I needed him to stay.
But… here we are. I’m naked from the waist down, his cum is dripping out of me, and he walked out like the air between us had turned to smoke after we came together like two people who communicate through sex because the words are just too hard.
Maybe they are.
Maybe we burn too bright… too fast.
Maybe we were always going to.
The silence is a different kind of loud now.
The river still hums through the trees, low and steady.
Cicadas pulse in the trees. Somewhere down by the edge of the water, I hear the faint bark of a dog.
I think it’s Reece’s hound. I think I hear the faint buzz of a passing boat, too.
But none of it touches me. Because my chest is too tight, and my mind is too full, and my body is still echoing with every thrust, every kiss, every damn whisper he makes that feels like it means something in the moment.
It does. I know it does.
But he won’t stay… he can’t.
I should feel used… but I don’t.
I feel... unsettled… afraid. Not of him but of what I feel and what I’m not certain he can give me.
And that’s somehow worse.
I eventually get up, I’ve laid on his damn floor long enough.
My legs are shaky and my fingers fumble as I collect my clothes and pull them back on, trying to reassemble something resembling a person.
My bra is shoved up. My breasts are exposed to the air.
My tank’s got a small tear along the side seam.
I put everything on and straighten my clothing slowly. Part of me wants to stay. The other part doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
I make it as far as the porch before I stop, again. His mug from this morning is still on the steps. The coffee has long gone cold.
There’s a dark ring on the wooden step where his foot was. A stray hair—dark and wavy, mine—is caught in the railing. A pine needle is stuck to the back of my thigh that I didn’t notice until now—I probably picked it up from his floor. I brush it off.
Standing at the railing, I stare at the river until the sun climbs too high and my skin starts to burn… Alone.
He doesn’t come back.
I want to scream but not because I’m angry. Because I felt something… a nd I know he did, too.
But he left anyway.
Hell, that’s probably exactly why he left.
I'm walking back from the little general store up the road with a bag of apples, granola bars, and a bottle of cheap wine swinging from my hand, I’m kind of thinking of drinking the whole bottle by myself.
Sweat is sticking to the back of my neck, and my thighs are chafing in my shorts, when I hear his voice before I see him.
It’s low, rough, and tired. "Careful with that kayak rack, Reece. I swear, if you scratch another one?—"
"I didn't scratch the last one.” Reece exclaims.
"You definitely did." Gruene says.
Their banter sounds normal. Easy. Familiar.
I round the back of the shop’s just in time to see Reece ducking away, flipping him off over his shoulder as he laughs.
And then, Gruene turns. He stops. For a split second, neither of us says a thing.
His eyes drag over me slowly… like he’s bracing for something… like he doesn’t know whether I’m going to throw the wine at his head or cry or kiss him again.
I do none of those things. I just walk past him.
My hand brushes just in front of his when I do. I don’t touch him, but I know he felt me anyway.
I’m not gone. Not yet.
But I’m also not just going to settle for sex crumbs.
He shows up on my porch with a six-pack and silence.
Staring at him for a bit through the screen door, I let him in without a word.
Setting the beer down on the table, he runs a hand through his hair, and sits in the same chair he first told me his daughter’s name.
We don’t speak for a long time.
Then, he says, “I know I’m doing this wrong.”
I stare at the label on my wine bottle and breathe. “All I asked you was to stay, Gruene. I asked you for one thing.”
He shakes his head. “I know. I said I wasn’t ready and I’m not sure I am, but I’m here. Now. I want to be. I just really fucking suck at this.”
Something in me breaks… and blooms… all at once.
I should ask for more. I should demand it.
But I don’t…
Because if I push, I’m scared he’ll walk away.
So, I say nothing.
I don’t ask questions… not when he pushes to his feet and reaches for me…
not when he lifts my shirt over my head and kisses the hollow beneath my jaw like he’s sorry and grateful and wrecked all at once…
not when he kneels in front of me and whispers my name against the inside of my thigh like a prayer.
I just feel.
All I can do is feel what he can’t say.
The first time we came together, it was wild.
The second time, it was desperate.
This time… it’s slow… intentional… soul-deep.
He lays me down on the bed and strips every piece of clothing from my body like he’s unwrapping a wound and healing it with every touch.
He kisses my scars, though they’re not even close to his.
He kisses my ribs, five of which Tyler previously broke.
He kisses the inside of my wrist just over my racing pulse.
He takes his time and worships me, and I feel everything he’s not able to say.
And when he finally sinks inside of me and gasps my name, “Blakelyn… sweet Blakelyn,” I cry out like it’s the first time I’ve ever been touched.
Maybe it is.
Because this isn’t sex.
This is something else.
Something that feels like forgiveness. And surrender.
And maybe—God help me—something like home.
We’re both just breathing after another intense orgasm that touched my very soul. His fingers are lightly drifting up and down my arm from my shoulder to my wrist and I’m tracing the edge of the scar that climbs from his side to his neck. He makes no move toward the door… for once, he stays.
He’s wrapped around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I want to ask him what he’s thinking but I already know. Because I’m thinking the same damn thing.
If we let ourselves believe this is real… we won’t survive it if it breaks.
In the morning, I wake up alone.
But this time… there’s a note on the pillow.
Don’t go far today.
—Gruene
And just like that, the ache in my chest shifts.
It’s still tender. I’m still trembling at the fear of all that’s left unsaid.
But I don’t feel hollow…
I’m full of hope.
I don’t call him. I don’t go to see him at the shop. But I don’t go far, either.
I stay close to the river, not because he told me to, but because his note wasn’t a demand. It was a request.
I spend the day walking the gravel trails that snake behind the cabins, letting sweat roll down my back and silence fill the space he left behind. I make it halfway to the park before I realize I haven’t even tied one of my shoes. I only notice it when I trip over the lace.
I don’t want distractions. I want stillness. I want the ache to settle somewhere I can find it again. Because the moment I let go of that pain, that fear of giving in again and possibly losing it, I’m scared it’ll be too much and he’ll leave… for real.
The sun is starting to head back down to the horizon when I sit on the porch and write a letter I never plan to send.
Dear Tyler,
I left and I hope it eats you alive.
I hope every hour that passes without control makes you squirm.
I hope the silence tastes like blood in your mouth.
I hope you look in every mirror and see the bruises you put on me staring back at you.
But more than anything, I hope you know that someone else touched me without breaking me.
That someone else saw the pieces you tried to grind to dust and worshiped them anyway.
He doesn’t treat me like a possession to do with what he chooses.
He doesn’t hit me and hurt me and humiliate me and call it love.
He doesn’t ask me to be less.
He hasn’t asked me for anything… except to stay.
And maybe I will.
Because he ASKED and he didn’t demand. Because he’s giving me a choice.
—Blakelyn
I slip the letter in the drawer next to my bed.
I just fold it. I don’t seal it. But it’s enough just to write it.
To look at the words on the paper in my handwriting and feel the power come back into my bones.
Gruene doesn’t text me. He’s not the kind of man who sends emojis or memes or even double texts if you don’t answer. He doesn’t call.
I don’t even see him all day, so I eat dinner alone and curl up in bed with a book.
At sunrise, I find fresh peaches on my porch.
At noon, there’s a bottle of sunscreen with a note.
"Don’t get burned, Sunshine."
Around seven, I hear his truck stop in front of my cabin with the engine idling. Footsteps sound on my porch, but when I open the door, he’s not there. A fresh mason jar of still warm sun tea is sitting on the mat along with cherry cobbler.
He doesn’t leave words… but he does leave his presence, and that’s more than any man has ever given me before.
I walk to the dock once the moon is high above the treetops and find him standing at the end of it.
He’s barefoot, shirtless, his jeans are low on his chiseled, scarred hips, and he’s holding a beer in one hand. The other is shoved deep into his pocket. The moon is behind him, painting silver across his shoulders. He doesn’t turn when I step beside him. “Didn’t think you’d come,” he murmurs.
“Didn’t think I’d stay.” I whisper back.