Page 76 of This Reckless Home

And I'm not ready.

Noah tugs my sleeve. “Steele? Did I do it right?”

I look down at him. Dark eyes. Trusting. Safe.

“Yeah, buddy,” I say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel. “You did it exactly right.”

“CATACOMBS” BY SØD VEN

BLOSSOM

Another restless night spent alone, Ant and Nox respecting my plea to be by myself. They didn’t like it, but like I’m doing with Steele, they’re giving me time. How can I tell them that it’s the farthest thing from what I want, even when I ask them to leave me alone.

I don’t know why I ask them to leave me alone when I’m desperate to be held, like somehow that will stop me from fracturing apart.

I know what this is. Know that it’s me pushing them away before they can leave me, like it feels like Steele is doing. But knowing my trauma’s ugly side and being able to stop it are two wildly different things.

I'm carrying a basket of laundry when I nearly run into Steele in the hallway.

“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping back, looking around the space which used to feel so big but now seems tiny and claustrophobic.

He steps aside to let me pass. Polite. Careful not to touch me, and it shatters my heart more.

See, he doesn’t want you anymore because you’ll never be enough.

A week ago, he would've taken the basket from me. Would've pressed a kiss to my temple. Would've made some joke about me doing too much.

Now there's three feet of space between us that feels like three miles and I don’t seem to be able to take a full breath.

“Thanks,” I whisper, hurrying past, his motor oil and pine scent a cruel reminder of everything I’ve lost.

I don't look back. Can't bear to see if he's watching me go or if he's already walked away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“STORM” BY RUELLE

STEELE

Ihear her coming before I see her.

Soft footsteps, the slight grunt of effort that tells me she's carrying something heavy, and every instinct I have fires at once because that's been my job since approximately the second week we lived here. Blossom carries too much and I take it from her. That's just how it goes.

Except today I don't.

She rounds the corner and nearly walks into me and the look on her face — the flinch, the immediate apology, the way she makes herself small — does something ugly to my insides.

Fuck.

This is what I'm doing to her. This careful, polite, stepping-aside version of me that she doesn't recognize because I don't recognize it either.

She mumbles something, keeps her eyes down, and I move to let her pass because I'm a fucking coward apparently, and I watch her adjust the basket against her hip and I don't take it from her.

A week ago I would have had it out of her hands before she could protest. Would have pressed a kiss to her temple while she rolled her eyes and told me she was perfectly capable. Would have carried it upstairs and made some comment about her doing too much and she would have told me to mind my own business in that prim British way of hers that I love.

I love.

Present tense. That hasn't gone anywhere and sometimes that makes it worse, not better. If I didn't love her this would be so much simpler. I could just leave. Pack my bag and walk and not look back.