I don’t do that anymore. I built walls for a reason.
Fifteen years ago, I learned what happens when you let a woman inside your heart. When you picture a future and start believing you deserve it. One phone call and it’s gone. One twist of metal and glass and you’re left with nothing but the memory.
Then the Army came and finished the job.
You learn to live with empty. You learn to sleep with one eye open. You learn to count exits. You learn to keep your hands busy and your heart locked.
Then she climbed into my lap.
And the lock broke.
I tell myself it’s just instinct. A protective reflex. A man doing what men do.
It’s a lie.
Because there’s nothing reflexive about the way I want her. Nothing simple about the way I meant mine the second I said it. I didn’t say it to scare that man. I said it because the idea of handing her back made something in me go feral.
I stand and slide an arm under her knees and the other behind her back and lift her carefully. She doesn’t wake, just makes a small sound and curls closer, cheek pressing against my chest.
Like she belongs there.
The possessive part of me likes that too much.
I carry her down the short hall to my bedroom. It isn’t fancy. A bed, a dresser, a chair with a hoodie thrown over it. A windowthat looks out into trees and darkness. The kind of room that has never held anyone but me.
Until now.
I set her down on the mattress and crawl into bed behind her and pull her close, arm around her waist. Skin on skin. Her body fits into mine like a question answered.
She sighs in her sleep and relaxes, and my chest goes tight again, because I can already tell I’m feeling too much. That thought should scare me. It does.
I feel her stir a while later. Not fully waking, just shifting, rolling until she’s more on her side, her back no longer pressed tight to my chest. Her eyes open slowly, hazel and sleepy. For a second she looks confused.
Then her hand slides up my torso, palm settling on my chest like she’s checking that I’m real. Fingers splayed. Warm.
She makes a small sound, breath catching. “You’re warm.”
I huff a short laugh. “Yeah.”
Her touch moves in a slow line, curious. My skin tightens under it. I keep still, letting her do it. Letting her learn that I’m here. She looks down at my chest, then back up at my face. Her cheeks tint pink.
“You carried me,” she whispers.
“I did,” I say.
Her lips part like she wants to ask something and hates herself for wanting to know the answer. “Do you regret it?” she asks finally.
The question hits my ribs like a punch. I shift closer, my mouth near her temple. “No.”
Her breath shudders.
My hand tightens at her waist. “Do you?”
Her eyes widen. “No.”
Good.
I brush my mouth over her forehead, a kiss so light it’s almost nothing. It isn’t nothing.
