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"I've got you," he whispers. "I'm good at this. Turn your head and look back me."
I do, only for a second.
It was real. It was real it was real it was real that shit was motherfucking REAL!
Miller holds me tight. His breath tickles my neck. "Let's move to the couch, my angel.”
I nod, struggling to my feet. "I'm sorry I'm doing this," I manage. I’m not crying anymore, but my whole body’s shaking.
He sits heavy on the couch, holding an arm out. "Don't be sorry, angel."
That endearment makes more tears drip down my cheeks.
"I want to make you feel better." He shifts so he’s got his legs stretched out on the couch in front of him. He waves at himself. "Lie between my legs here. Put your arms around my waist and put your head on my chest."
I do what he says. I wrap an arm around his waist, opening my mouth to ask if it's okay when he whispers, "Yeah. Just like that."
When I get my arms around him, he lets out a long breath. I can feel him relax against the couch's arm. Then he's stroking his hand under my shirt, pulling it up toward my shoulder blades so he can drag his fingertips over my bare back.
His hand lingers on the sore spot. "You got hurt during the game?"
"A little."
I can't move, can barely breathe as he tries to catalogue my back with gentle fingers. He scratches my sides lightly, and I groan and hug his waist a little tighter.
"Like that, don't you?" he murmurs.
"You remember?"
"I remember everything about you." His other hand strokes my hair, fingertips scratching the fade, then going gentle up top where the hair is growing out again from where I cut it in the summer. His hand that's scratching my back stills, and he wraps that arm around me.
I feel like I’m about to cry again, from being held like this. I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me…but I know I’ve never been held like this. Maybe I’ve been held by him, though.
Realizing that makes my eyes throb. I try to get some deep breaths so it doesn’t start a waterfall again.
Miller hugs me tighter, tucks one of his legs over mine. His lips brush my hair. “Ezra.” His cheek presses against my head. I squeeze my eyes shut. I feel like I’m in a dream. His lips brush my temple. Then his cheek rubs against my hair again. “Tell me what happened.” His arm, resting warm on my back, shifts as his fingers move up my nape, stroking into my hair. His hand’s holding the back of my head.
It’s such a strange sensation—bliss. I want to close my eyes and really feel it, try to let it sink in—that he’s hugging me against him…like he loves me. That maybe he still loves me. It would be good to stay in that place a while. But he’s asking, and that means I have to tell him.
“I don’t want to tell you,” I whisper. I hear his heartbeat, try to shut my eyes and feel the way this feels—for just a second. Who knows how he’ll feel about me once he hears my horror story. Who knows how head fucked I’ll be by the time I finish telling it.
“You don’t have to right now,” he says. “I don’t want to pressure you or anything. Just be here with me if you need to.” His voice is so damn soft and husky. I wish I had the nerve to kiss him—even just his cheek.
Instead, I shake my head against his chest. “No. You deserve to hear it.”
I sit up, to put some space between us. I’m sitting between his legs till he sits up, too. Then Josh shifts so he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch with his back against the couch’s arm, facing me. I draw a knee up to my chest and try to get a few good, solid, deep breaths.
I shift around a few times, ending up sitting cross-legged facing him. It’s hard to look right at him like this, but if we love each other, then he deserves this from me. Honesty. And the whole story.
“I’m nervous to tell it.” I wipe a palm on my pants, press my lips together, look down at the couch’s fibers. “Don’t feel sorry for me.” My voice sounds raspy. I swallow and hold his blue eyes with mine. “I’m okay now. I got out. And I found you.”
“That makes me nervous, Ez. But I want to hear it. I know you, and I already know stuff happened.”
I inhale slowly, forcing myself to keep on looking at him. “Did I ever mention…Riley,” I manage. “Or Paul?” The word sounds choked.
“You used to dream about Paul,” he says softly.
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Then I make myself look up at him, even as my face flushes and blood whooshes in my head. “What about Alton?”
