Chapter 55
Fable
The words were out there. No keeping them deep inside, where they’d lived for years, festering like an old wound that never fully healed.
I was exposed.
I hated it.
Sitting across from him, holding his hand like it was some kind of anchor, I felt like I was splitting open in real-time. Every part of me that I’d tried to patch together was unraveling.
I had never said it like this before. Never let the words settle in the air long enough to make them real.
I can’t have kids.
The word made my stomach twist, made my hands itch with the desperate need to be clean, to scrub away the feeling crawling over my skin. I had fought so hard not to let Mike’s words define me, not to let them sink into my bones, but the truth was, they had.
They had buried themselves in the deepest parts of me.
“I lost my parents, and now . . .” My throat tightened, the words clawing their way out. “Now I can’t even create a family of my own.”
The ache was a hollow thing, an echo inside my chest. Not grief nor anger. It was the aching absence of something I’d never get to hold.
For years, I had convinced myself that if I ignored it, it wouldn’t hurt so much. That if I worked harder, pushed forward, became someone worthy—I could outrun the emptiness inside me.
I couldn’t.
Because no matter how fast I moved, no matter how much I distracted myself, it was always there.
The knowledge that my body had failed me.
That I wasn’t whole.
That I would never have the chance to be what I once thought I could be.
I shifted, my fingers twitching against his as he dropped his hand from my cheek and brought my hand to rest on his leg.
I needed to scrub it away.
The filth, the memories, the feeling of Mike still clinging to my skin.
I needed to erase this night, the confrontation, the way my past had crashed into my present, forcing me to face things I never wanted to say out loud.
I needed to be clean.
But Beau didn’t let go.
He simply held my hand, his grip steady, like he could feel me slipping and was making damn sure I didn’t.
I couldn’t meet his eyes, couldn’t bear to see pity or sadness or anything that would make me feel smaller than I already did.
So I stared at the table, my chest tight, my throat burning.
“I feel—” My voice cracked, and I swallowed hard. “I feel like there’s something wrong with me.”
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles, grounding me.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Fable,” he murmured.
I let out a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around his for a second before my body screamed at me to let go.
To run. To cleanse.
To make this feeling go away.
The weight of everything inside me finally cracked open, and I broke.
“That’s why I couldn’t come to the hospital,” I sobbed. “I was broken. I am terrified.” I sucked in a ragged breath, my hands trembling. “I see doctors virtually because I can’t step into a hospital. I barely go to appointments without having a full-blown panic attack.”
Deep breaths.
I wiped at my face, inhaling shakily. “But . . . in the last few weeks, I’ve been working on being a better version of myself.
For myself.” My voice wobbled, but I pushed through it.
“I’ve been going to therapy. Trying to outrun this obsession with being clean, trying to stop myself from needing control over every little thing. ”
Beau didn’t hesitate.
“Good,” he said simply, his voice steady. “I’m glad you’re doing it for yourself.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I wish you’d told me this.”
I swallowed, my throat thick. “T-the shame—”
“I know how that feels, Fable,” he murmured. “Telling my dad, telling Dalton that I was done after the season? That I wasn’t a bull rider anymore? The shame of ending on an injury, instead of on my terms?” His jaw flexed, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over my skin. “I get it.”
I nodded weakly. “I know.”
I was exhausted. Completely drained. My body sagged, and I laid my head down on my arm, the wooden table cool against my overheated skin.
“You didn’t lose me.” From the corner of my eye, I saw him shift closer. “I know I’m not your parents, or the kids you thought you’d have one day, but I’m here. I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“I fucked up,” I whispered, the words barely there.
Beau reached up again, his calloused fingers brushing against my cheek, gently tilting my face toward him.
“I did too. I was too scared you were like my dad. Leaving before it got tough. Everyone I ever loved left me.” His voice thickened. “My dad left when things got hard. My mom left because she was sick.”
Pain flickered across his face, something old and deep that I recognized all too well.
I shook my head fiercely. “I would never.” My voice cracked as I realized I had, but I pushed through. “I-I’m sorry.”
I had no other words. Nothing that could undo the damage, nothing that could change the way my silence had probably hurt him.
I knew the feeling. Nothing anyone could say would erase the feeling of people always leaving you. I left him, just as everyone had left me too.
Beau studied me for a long moment, searching my face like he was trying to see inside me, trying to understand every piece I wasn’t saying.
I swallowed hard, my heart hammering as I dropped my gaze. “You don’t want someone like me anyway,” I whispered.
“You don’t get to be the judge of that, Fable.”
I let out a slow, shaky breath. “I cannot have children, Beau.” I forced myself to say it again, to put the truth between us with no way to take it back. “You told me you wanted to raise your kids on the ranch.”
His expression didn’t shift. “In a perfect world . . . is that something you’d want?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Kids.” His gaze softened, searching mine. “Would you want them?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I think that’s the hardest part. It was part of my dream too.”
“I’d still love to have children with you. We can foster, look into our options. If you want.” He exhaled. “And if you don’t? I still want to grow old on our ranch with you.” His voice quieted. “I want to be with you, Fable Morris.”
A sob ripped from my chest, my entire body trembling as I broke apart.
Because I didn’t deserve him.
Didn’t deserve someone so gentle, so good. Someone who would never make me feel small, never punish me for existing, never shove me down the stairs in a moment of rage.
“I’m not perfect, Beau,” I choked out, wiping at my damp cheeks. “I will fuck up again.”
He nodded without hesitation. “I will too. I’ll be too prideful sometimes or stubborn.”
A soft chuckle slipped out of me, the first one in what felt like forever.
He reached forward, gripped the back of my chair, and scraped it across the wooden floor, pulling me in closer until our knees touched.
I gasped with the sudden movement.
“Someone who is healing needs to be with someone who will protect them while they heal.” He brushed his fingers over my knuckles. “Let me protect you, so you can heal.”
I reached out without thinking, wrapping my arms around his neck, holding onto him like he was the only solid thing in my world.
“I’m so sorry I left. I was horrible.”
Without hesitation, he reached his good arm around my waist, pulling me in closer. His broken hand stayed at his side, but I didn’t care—I reached for him anyway, helping him as I lifted myself into his lap, straddling him.
“I wish we’d talked about this a long time ago,” he murmured, dipping his forehead until it rested lightly against mine.
My heart pounded as he brushed his lips against my temple, soft and slow.
“We tell each other the truth from now on?”
I nodded, my fingers threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, my nose brushing against his. “I promise.”
“Then I have something to tell you,” he murmured, his lips a breath away from mine.
“Oh yeah?” I tilted my head slightly, curiosity flickering through me—but not enough to drown out the desperation building inside, the need to taste him again.
“I’ll stand beside you while you heal, while you grow. I’ll be patient. I’ll fight for you. I’ll wait for you.” His eyes held mine. “But mostly,” he whispered, “I love you.”
The words sent something warm rushing through me, my pulse racing.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
I kissed him softly, pressing against him with every ounce of feeling I had inside me. His arms, including his casted one, wrapped around me. His lips moved against mine like he had been waiting for this moment forever.
When I finally pulled back, breathless, I whispered, “I love you too, Beaudreau.”
“This has been a long-ass night,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Let’s go to bed, baby. You must be exhausted.”
I nodded, and he leaned in a little closer. “Do you need another shower?”
It was such a simple question. Casual, even, but something in the way he asked it hit me square in the chest. I could’ve broken down all over again.
Behind the words, I heard the truth: Do you need help getting out of your head again? Do you need to feel safe in your own skin?
He wasn’t just offering water and soap, he was offering peace. A moment to come back to myself. A moment where I didn’t have to do it alone. He was asking to take care of me again.
God, I’d never realized how much I needed someone who saw the cracks and didn’t flinch.
For a moment, I almost nodded, almost let the routine take over—the hot water, the isolation, the quiet spiral I’d gotten so good at sinking into. Instead, I took a breath. One I felt in my ribs.
“I think I . . . think I need you to stay.”
His expression softened immediately, like something in him had been waiting for that.
For the first time, instead of hiding, instead of rinsing off the mess alone or letting the thoughts devour me, I told the truth. I didn’t need space. I didn’t need silence. I needed him.
I needed comfort, and this time, I let myself ask for it.