Page 35 of Run to Me

After a few hesitant beats, he asks, “What happens next?”

Next. Choosing to ignore the double meaning behind his question, I opt for the safe route and stick to the discussion regarding my career.

“I have a project in Philadelphia later this month. It’s a four-day shoot for a music video. Then I wait until the next gig comes along.”

Jensen sets his fork on his plate and reaches for his water. He spins the glass on the counter three times before bringing it to his lips. I hold the bottom and lift it higher for him.

His throat flexes with each swallow. “Thanks,” he says.

I clear my own throat and take the glass from him before stacking our dishes. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m proud of you, Maisy.”

My hands still at his whispered words. The sincerity in them draws my gaze to his, and my eyes burn as I fight back tears.

His voice breaks with emotion when he adds, “Really proud.”

We stare into each other’s glistening eyes, lost to faraway moments in a shared timeline. A time when we felt like the only ones in the room as we nurtured the invisible tether binding us.

Now we are the only two people here, light-years apart and living in opposing worlds. He’s planted firmly in Walford, his path ending at a self-constructed roadblock. I’m untethered and adrift, forging a new path for myself in the great big world. Yet somehow, we’re both lost.

“I’ll clean this up, then we’ll get you to bed,” I say, closing the shutters and blocking the light shining on our peaceful moment.

A shaky, pained sigh leaves his chest before he nods and makes his way to the bedroom.

The cherry-stained furniture, which belonged to Jensen’s parents when they slept in this room, hasn’t moved in over twenty years. Each piece claims the spot assigned to it when they first purchased the king bed, long dresser with mirror, and matching nightstands. Even the floral wallpaper his mother hung remains, a gross violation when paired with his solid black bedding and curtains.

He sits on the mattress as I prepare the bed for him. When I pull back the black duvet, I hold in a surprised gasp at the sight of the pillowcases. They can’t be a coincidence. Coincidences don’t exist between us, a fact I try my best to ignore.

“They’re satin,” I say, maintaining my composure as I complete my task.

When I was thirteen, I embarked on a mission to tame my curls and conducted hours of online research. Sleeping with a satin pillowcase was one of many solutions I tried, and one of the few that helped.

The tips of Jensen’s ears flush a deep red, a sign of embarrassment, and he adjusts his hair to cover them. “They keep my hair from getting frizzy.”

Instead of mentioning the obvious—his lifelong observance of me—I tease him. “I never realized you were so vain.”

“I have amazing hair. It deserves special treatment.”

“You do have fabulous hair.”

“So do you.”

God, his reverence turns me inside out. I need him to dial back the way his voice drops lower when he says something sweet. It’s too much.

Fighting through the pain, he reaches up to brush my curls aside and cups my face in his hand, and I let him. “Come home to me, Maisy. Please.”

“Jensen.” I groan his name, allowing my eyes to fall shut for a second as I relish his touch. “Don’t ruin this by begging for things I can’t give you.”

“I’m sorry.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb once, twice, three times before pulling away. His apology has layers and could cover a multitude of transgressions, but I’m not in the right headspace to examine the deeper meanings.

“Let’s get your shirt off and get you into bed.”

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m fine sleeping in it. Taking it off would hurt too much.”

My brain trips over his strange phrasing, but I drop the issue.

Grunting and groaning with every movement, he slides between the sheets and settles onto his back. Jensen’s a stomach sleeper, so this position isn’t comfortable for him even without the bruised ribs.