Emily
The speed with which that man made it to my apartment could have rivaled Max Verstappen.
I laughed as I opened the door — which was still harder to do with my non-dominant hand than I liked to admit — and saw Braden standing there, panting like he’d run a marathon.
“New record,” I teased, pretending to check my nonexistent watch. “Now if only we could shave a few seconds off the corners. Maybe you could take the bumper off the Bronco and see if that helps?”
I was trying so hard to joke, to laugh, to kick this all off with something light and fun even as I felt my stomach cramping, my lungs seizing, tears threatening to fall.
And damn Braden Lock, he didn’t let me fool him for even one second.
His brows pinched together at the sight of my arm in the cast, at the sling that held it close to my body. His nostrils flared the longer he looked at my injury, and when he dragged that tortured gaze to meet mine, I nearly broke.
“Fuck, Em,” he breathed, shaking his head. “I’m so sorry.”
That did it.
I tried to nod and smile, tried to shrug it off and say something easy like, “Ah, no biggie! Just a little sprain.” But the tears rushed so fast I couldn’t stop them, warping my face even as I tried to cover it with my non-injured hand.
I barely got one good sob out before Braden was there, sweeping me into his arms and pushing us inside to shut the door behind us. He wrapped me up tighter then, one arm snaked all the way around my back, and the other over my shoulders as his hand cradled my head softly and held me to his chest.
He was so warm, so big and surprisingly soft for all the muscle that lined his body. My fingers curled in the soft fabric of his hoodie, like gripping tight to him might keep me from spiraling further. I was like a wild cat who’d found reprieve from the cold rain, who’d stumbled upon a covered shelter where no one would bother me.
I wanted to stay there. I wanted to curl up in his arms and pretend they were home.
Eventually, I pulled away, swiping at my face and sniffling. It wasn’t lost on me that Braden didn’t break the hug until I did, like he was waiting for me to decide when it was enough.
That nearly made me cry again.
Wordlessly, Braden walked me over to the couch I’d been practically living on the last few days and had me sit. He crossed to my kitchen, opening cabinets until he found the one that housed our glassware. He brought me a tall cup of water and sat next to me on the couch while I drank nearly the entire thing.
And then he offered me a handkerchief from his pocket.
I laughed.
“DearGod,what is this?” I asked, holding the soft, worn blue square of fabric like it was a dead rat.
“It’s for your tears and your snot. You’re welcome.”
“Who carries a freaking handkerchief in the twenty-first century?”
“A gentleman.”
I laughed again, and the way it rumbled through my chest so genuinely felt like breathing after holding my breath under water until I turned blue. I loved how it shook off the pain, how it rattled off the ache and left me feeling warm and light again.
I dabbed at my eyes before blowing my nose into the thing, and I had to admit it felt much nicer than a tissue. “Am I supposed to give this back to you now?” I asked, arching a brow as I waved the fabric in front of Braden’s face.
He grimaced and dodged my advances. “You can keep it for now.”
“What? Don’t want to take it home and smell it? Sleep with it? Make a Voodoo doll or something?” I snapped my fingers. “Wait, are you trying to get me to trade you this for a pair of my panties? Because it might be working.”
“Glad to see you’re able to keep your humor in times of duress.”
“It is my specialty.” My smile slipped a bit, and I curled my fingers around the handkerchief, holding tight to it as I dropped my hand to my lap. “What’s the saying? If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry?”
I waved a hand over myself to illustrate, which made me half-laugh, half-cry again.
Braden reached out and smoothed his hand over my shoulders before letting that palm wander down my back. I let out a long, pleased sigh at the contact, at the feeling of another human being touching me when I’d done my best to isolate. His hand was warm, his touch firm, his eyes laced with a sincere sympathy I wasn’t sure I loved or hated.
