Chapter 33
Blair
There’s something weirdly vulnerable about unpacking boxes in someone else’s home, even if that someone is the man you love.
Greyson had cleared out a whole closet for me, even added little hooks near the front door for my keys, like it was already decided that this would be my home too. Still, as I stood in the middle of his bedroom with a box labeled ‘Blair – Books’, I felt like I was hovering between lives.
“Are you organizing or just emotionally preparing to make a mess?” Greyson’s voice called from the hallway.
I looked over my shoulder to find him leaning against the doorframe, holding two mugs of coffee. One of them had a chipped rim and said Caffeine Queen in pink letters. My favorite.
“I’m assessing the terrain,” I said, reaching for the mug with a smirk. “Thank you.”
He stepped into the room, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, and sat on the edge of the bed. “You’ve only got five boxes.”
“I travel light.”
“Or you have commitment issues.”
I gave him a playful shove. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
He grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward him until I was standing between his knees, his hands sliding up the sides of my thighs.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
We stayed like that for a moment, just breathing the same air, soaking in the quiet comfort of belonging.
Then he tapped the box with his foot. “Wanna unpack your books first? Start with something that feels like you.”
I smiled and set my coffee down. “Good idea.”
We opened the box together, and I started pulling out paperbacks and dog-eared hardcovers, stacking them onto his dresser until it looked more like a library than a bedroom. He didn’t mind. He even reached in and pulled out my worn copy of Little Women .
“This one’s got battle scars,” he said, flipping through its fragile pages.
“I’ve had that since I was ten. I used to highlight the romantic parts like they were gospel.”
Greyson glanced up, grinning. “Did Jo and Laurie kiss in this version?”
“Sadly, no. But I wanted them to.”
He stood and placed the book gently on the shelf by the window. “I think you’re the first girl to move in here and bring Louisa May Alcott with her.”
“Damn. How many girls have moved in?”
“Exactly one,” he said, stepping close again. “And she’s also the last.”
I flushed, the truth of it anchoring somewhere deep in my chest.
We spent the rest of the morning unpacking, dancing around boxes, occasionally stealing kisses between stacks of poetry and notebooks. When I hung the final sweater in the closet, beside his T-shirts and flannels, I exhaled.
Greyson came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. “How’s it feel?”
“Like home,” I said.
And I meant it.
The rain had started just after midnight, soft and steady against the windows, a rhythm that made the world feel smaller and safer.
Greyson’s room, or I guess now our room was dim, the only light coming from the bedside lamp, golden and warm.I sat curled on the edge of the bed in one of his T-shirts, my legs bare, hair still damp from the shower.
He was across the room, changing out of his jeans, his back to me as he pulled a clean shirt over his head.
I watched the way his muscles moved, how the tattoos curled down his arms like smoke and stories, every line familiar and mine.
When he turned, his eyes softened.
“You okay, Bee?”
I nodded, but he knew better.
He walked over slowly, his hand brushing the side of my face, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it mattered. Like I mattered.
“I still have nights,” I whispered. “Where it feels like everything good will disappear if I breathe too hard.”
He didn’t say anything. He just knelt in front of me, eye level, grounding me with nothing but the weight of his gaze.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “You can fall apart here, and I’ll still be holding you.”
I reached for him. Not because I needed to be saved, but because I needed to feel something that reminded me I was alive, wanted, and safe.
He kissed me like he meant it. Like every broken part of me deserved worship. His hands moved slowly, reverently, one at my jaw, the other at my thigh, pulling me gently into his lap until we were tangled together in the center of the bed.
There was no rush.
Just breath.
Skin.
A slow unraveling.
He whispered things between kisses; You’re beautiful. I’ve got you. You’re safe. And I believed every word.
When he finally pushed my shirt up and his mouth found my skin, I trembled, not from fear, but from the way it made me feel seen .
It wasn’t just sex. It was having someone know my body so well that even the most minor touches have me coming undone.
It was the fact that I was so infatuated with this man, and half the time I couldn’t believe it.
I finally feel like I’m where I belong, where I was always supposed to be. It was being loved exactly as I was.
And when I came undone in his arms, I cried. Not from sadness, but from release.
Because this , this, was what healing looked like. And I wasn’t alone anymore.