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My body curls in on itself, relaxing into his arms as he sits on the edge of the bed.
Like a security blanket, his hands wash over my body, fingers in my hair, rubbing my back until my breathing evens and my blurry eyes come into focus. I’m not sure how long we sit here—with him soothing my aching muscles from what seems like the inside out. And me, trying to focus on anything other than the war happening in my head.
“Look at me.” His voice is soft but demanding, a hint of worry buried under his words.
It’s too late to be embarrassed now, so I lift my head, scrubbing the flesh of my palms across my cheeks.
Both hands cupping either side of my face, he erases the last of my tears with the pads of his thumbs, and I lean into his touch because it’s bringing comfort I desperately need.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, my voice sounding small.
He shakes his head firmly, the indent of a concerned line between his brows. “Don’t. Never. Not to me. Do you hear me?” I just stare at him like he’s grown another head. He’s walked in on me having the mother of all meltdowns. “Do you hear me?” he repeats, curling his fingers under my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes again.
I only nod before another sob ruptures. The emotions of the day are taking too much of a toll.
“Tell me what to do. It’s killing me seeing you like this. What can I do?”
I swallow hard, desperate for my voice to come out in more than a whisper, but it betrays me, and my words become strangled around my tongue, saying things I don’t think I realize have repercussions.
“I want to feel. Something. Anything other than this.”
His hands stop still on my upper arms when my eyes find his mouth.
I don’t know what I’m asking.
I don’t even know what I’m doing.
But I don’t care.
I shift on his lap, feeling the effects of my words.
He knows what I want.
“Claire?” He searches my face, my name a mere growl from his throat. But his hand slips around my waist, holding me closer.
“Do I look like a monster to you, Jake?”
He rears back with a whoosh, my question knocking what little air is in this room from his lungs.
I bite down on my lip so hard, I’m sure it will bleed.
“Why can’t she look at me?” I whisper, knowing he will never have the answers. “I spent my entire life protecting her. I was a child and the parent, and she can’t bear to look at me in the eye because I remind her of a monster.”
Am I?
His jaw ticks, and with two hands on either side of my head, he holds me firm. I try to look away, but he won’t let me. “Look at me,” he demands.
I do.
“I’ll only say this once because if I hear those words coming out of your mouth again, I’ll go crazy. You are not a monster. You’re bruised and cracked and hurting. You’re fighting. But you’re surviving. And for all of that, you’re perfect.”
My heart cracks wide open. Those little crevices he has chiseled away at for weeks explode into a thousand pieces.
“Then help me feel anything but this pain.”
I knead my fingers into the hard muscles in his shoulders, his body tensing beneath me, my thighs clenching in response. Because if I’m finding comfort in his arms, I bet I’ll find even more in his bed.
It’s hungry. It’s desperate. It’s raw.
