32. Is This A Sexy Gift?
Is This A Sexy Gift?
At the end of it all, Ash really did spoil the crap out of me. And that’s not even mentioning the gift we are now on the way home to see.
Home.
I almost gasp aloud. When did I start thinking about his house as home? When did I start thinking of Ash himself as home?
Belle mews from the back seat. I’m slightly convinced she’s a mind reader.
The wooden miniature of her that he crafted sits in my open palm. One of my Christmas gifts, and something Belle spent a little too much time staring at. If this thing connects my mind to hers and allows her to read my thoughts, I’m chucking it in a river.
She mews again.
Sus.
“Home sweet home,” he says when we pull in front of his house to my arched eyebrow. This totem better not connect all three of our minds.
We dropped his dad off on the way and I can honestly say it was nice being around him.
Birch—or Call Me Dad If You Want—has that quintessential dad energy, despite said energy flagging.
The chemo may be a lot, but you can tell the man doesn’t let it hold him back.
I don’t fully understand everything he’s going through, and it feels nosey as hell to ask.
Look at me being polite for once and trying to respect boundaries.
We love the self-growth.
I let Ash lift me out of the truck, sliding me down his body as he puts me down. I don’t think I’ll ever be sick of him or how he feels.
I think if it were up to Ash, we’d spend literally every second ravishing each other. Maybe more.
My nose nuzzles against his as I press a soft kiss to his lips. It’s all very domestic and sweet.
“You’ll need to close your eyes,” he says as we enter his home. Belle very quickly finds the plushy bed Ash bought for her and commences her favorite activity.
Ignoring us.
“Do I really?”
He nods, pressing his front to my back and covering my eyes. He walks us around and I’m ashamed to say I’ve memorized the layout and know exactly where we are.
The bedroom.
“Is this a sexy gift? Is that why you couldn’t give it to me while we were in front of family?” I squeal as he pinches my side.
“No,” he chuckles as I bat away his hand. “Not a sexy gift.”
Before I can keep guessing, he drops his hand and there it is.
A sleek mahogany dresser about as high as my waist. Little engraved flames swirl in intricate dances in all the right places, so that it’s not overwhelming or kitschy. Just an enhancement and display of skill.
A small cat sits in the bottom corner, an almost uncanny resemblance to Belle.
This must have taken weeks. Maybe months. Months when we weren’t together. Months he was certain I would be his despite me pushing him away.
“I want you to have a place to put your things. I don’t want you to have to lug a suitcase back and forth every time you stay here. I want you to feel like this is another home for you,” he explains, scratching at his beard.
He’s . . . nervous. Worried that I won’t like it, or won’t appreciate it. Or maybe that I’ll think it’s too much and run.
Guilt piles heavy on me. It will take a lifetime to rid him of that fear. Fear that I put there.
I slide my hand along the top. Not a single rough spot. It’s so smooth it almost feels like fabric.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. This man really is healing all the jagged, broken places inside me. Even just a few weeks ago a gesture like this would have caused panic to rise in my throat like bile.
But now? Now I see that his love isn’t something to fear, even if I do fear losing him.
As long as I keep him as separated from this Mom-is-in-Hell-and-needs-rescuing nonsense as possible, I can keep him safe. But more importantly, I can keep him.
He presses a kiss to my lips, one of warmth and love.
Of home.