Chapter 13-Choosing Him
He was already awake.
Not in the kitchen making coffee. Not answering emails from the living room. Here. In bed beside me, lying on his side with one arm tucked beneath his head, watching me. He'd been awake long enough to memorize my face in the morning light.
And somehow it didn't make me want to hide.
"Morning," I murmured. His hand found mine beneath the sheets. Easy. Familiar.
"Morning." His thumb moved in small circles against my skin, and something inside me softened.
"I talked to Charlotte yesterday," I said quietly. "She invited us to Sunday dinner."
"Yeah?"
"Next week. Emma was invited."
Something changed in his expression—hope threaded carefully through uncertainty, like he didn't quite trust himself to want too much. "You want me there?"
The question caught me off guard.
Because wanting still felt dangerous to me. Wanting meant need. Meant risk. Meant placing something fragile in another person's hands and trusting they wouldn't crush it.
But I was so tired of pretending I didn't.
"Yes." The word came out small. Honest enough that it scared me.
Richard's eyes held mine for a second longer. Then he nodded once.
"Good."
Just that. No surprise. No pressure. No making it bigger than it was. Like it was nothing. Of course, he'd come.
"I still want to run sometimes," I whispered. "I want to push you away and tell myself this was a mistake before you get the chance to leave first."
"Yeah," he said softly. No judgment. No flinch. Just understanding.
"But you're still here."
His fingers tightened around mine beneath the sheets. Warm. Steady. Real.
In that elevator at the Hendricks Hotel, I let fear make the decision for me and walked away from this. From him. From the terrifying possibility of being fully loved and needing it to last. And I spent the years after building a life around that decision.
I told myself the emptiness was manageable. Normal, even. Something you could survive if you stayed busy enough.
"Richard."
"Yeah?"
My throat burned. "I'm scared."
The words came out small. Almost nothing.
I'd spent years pretending to be competent so convincingly I almost believed it myself.
But this — lying there with his hand wrapped around mine and my heart exposed between us — this was the first honest thing I'd said in a very long time.
"I know," he said.
He didn't tell me not to be scared. Didn't promise it would be okay. Didn't offer the usual lines about love conquering fear or any of the bullshit people say when they don't understand.
He just held my hand.
I moved closer. Just enough that my head rested against his shoulder. His arm came around me. Unhurried. Giving me time to pull away. I didn't.
His hand settled on my waist. Not my shoulder. Not my back. My waist. The heat of his palm burned through the thin cotton of my shirt.
I could have turned my head. Kissed him. Let it become what it was before—urgent and desperate and consuming.
But I didn't.
Because this — just breathing together, just existing in the same space without it becoming anything else — felt like choosing him. And not because of sex.
His grip tightened. Once. Like he was thinking the same thing.
Neither of us moved.
His heartbeat was steady under my ear. Slower than mine. Calmer. He pulled me closer. Not sexual. Unhurried. I breathed in. Out. Matched my rhythm to his.
The morning light filtered through the curtains. Soft. Gray. The kind of light that turned everything silver. The kind of light that made the morning feel like we had all the time in the world.
"What if I fuck this up?" I asked.
"You will. I'll fuck it up too." His voice was quiet. Certain. "That's what people do. We'll figure it out together."
The word landed somewhere in my chest and stayed there.
I kissed him because I wanted to. Because he was there. Because for the first time in longer than I could remember, I wanted what I had, here with him.
When I pulled back, his breathing was unsteady.
He pulled me closer. My head on his chest. His arms around me. The sheets tangled between us.
And we stayed there. Not talking. Not moving. Not doing anything except breathing.
His fingers traced patterns on my shoulder. Absent. Like he'd forgotten he was doing it.
"Blaire."
"Mm?"
"You know I'm not going anywhere, right?"
My hand pressed flat against his chest. "I know."
"Even when you push me away. Even when you fuck it up. Even when you're scared."
"Stop."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He said it with so much quiet certainty that the fear and want inside me softened around something I still didn't understand.
"Okay," I whispered.
I felt him smile against my hair.
We stayed like that until the sun shifted higher in the sky. Until my alarm went off for the second time.
Morrison deposition prep at nine. Partner meeting at ten. Charlotte's security briefing at two.
This wasn't like before.
This was me choosing him. Not just the way he made me feel — him. The person I'd been trying not to want. The one who saw straight through me.
When I finally pulled away to shower, Richard's hand caught mine. Just for a moment. Then he let go.
When I came out, Richard handed me coffee made exactly how I liked it. Our fingers touched briefly. I didn't pull away.
Marcus from litigation appeared in the conference room doorway during the Bennett deposition review. "Blaire, got a second?"
A year ago, I would have smiled. Warm. Inviting. Made him feel like the interruption was welcome, even though we were mid-session.
"Not right now," I said. No apology. No softening.
Marcus blinked. Nodded. Left.
Richard was looking at me when I turned back to the deposition transcript. Not surprised. Not proud. Just seeing me.
I just looked at him. Let him see me totally.
The exhaustion. The strain of Bennett's case. The pressure of the threats hanging over everything, turning every workday into a tense, brittle one.
I didn't try to smooth it over. Didn't reach for the polished smile that said I could handle anything.
And Richard — his expression barely changed, but something in his eyes did. Something deeper. Steadier. Like he understood this was the first time I'd let the carefully controlled version of myself slip.
By the time we got home that night, we were both exhausted enough that neither of us pretended otherwise.
We fell into bed without turning on the television, checking emails, or talking through tomorrow's schedule.
His arm settled around my waist, drawing me back against his chest. His thumb brushed slowly along my arm, light and absentminded. Nothing demanding in it. Just quiet reassurance.
My breathing slowed first.
I felt the exact moment sleep started pulling me under — the soft blur at the edges of thought, the slow release of tension I usually fought to keep locked down —
Richard's hand stilled against my skin. His breathing deepened a few seconds later.
He had been waiting. Making sure I fell asleep first.
The realization followed me down into the dark.
I didn't tell him I loved him that night. Or the next morning. Or the one after that.
But somewhere between his patience and the way he kept holding me without asking for anything back, I was learning how.