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“Touch me,” I tell him, my voice calm despite the turbulent emotions.
His eyes widen slightly, surprise flashing in their depths. He hesitates, his gaze darting from my face to my outstretched hand and back. “Beth—”
“Logan,” I cut him off, keeping my hand steady, an open invitation. “Touch me.”
He’s still for a moment longer, his conflict palpable. Then, with a resigned sigh, he reaches out. It’s feather-light, as though he’s afraid any more pressure might cause harm.
With both our chests heaving, I hold his gaze, willing him to see what’s true.
My breath stutters when his other hand grazes my wrists before coming up to trace over my cheek.
“Your touch doesn’t hurt me.”
His eyes don’t leave our connected hands, his expression one of deep concentration as if he’s trying to memorize the sensation. The touch is so light, it’s almost not there. But I can feel it, the warmth of his hand, the tremble on his fingers as he cups my face.
“Could you ever hurt me?” I ask.
His eyes finally snap to mine, and in them I see raw vulnerability. For a moment, he just looks. Then as if coming to some internal conclusion, he shakes his head.
It’s a long second of forgetting how to breathe before he wraps his hand around the back of my neck and pulls me to him, pressing his head against mine. “Fuck, no. You hurt, I hurt.”
I almost smile.
“You hurt, I hurt,” I repeat. “You’re not your father,” I say again, my voice choked. He needs to understand it, to believe it as much as I do. “You’re not a monster. You’re a man with fears like any man, but you’re a good man.”
We both have souls that bear the marks of a brutal past, but they don’t need to mark our futures.
“I’m not running.” In my best attempt to dampen the thick air between us, I say, “I think I did enough of that when we first met.”
It’s a whisper against my skin when he says, “My runner.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Just don’t push me away. I missed you this week. I had so much leftovers.”
We both laugh this time, and I feel his shoulders relax against my hands.
“I missed you too, pretty girl.”
There he is.
We don’t say anything else as he squeezes me a little tighter. It’s a small, silent affirmation. Hopefully he let go of some demons tonight.
We don’t speak about whatever this is, about whatever’s happening between us. I think we’re both too scared of that yet. Our steps are small, but they always seem to guide us closer together.
I don’t know what we’re doing or how we’re going to deal with it. It’s both uncertain and terrifying, but at least we’re doing it together.
Thirty-Two
Once upon a time.
It’s the beginning of every fairy tale. The same ones I lost myself in so many times when I was a little girl.
Those four words hold so much promise. You know it’s just the beginning. Dark obstacles will creep up along the way, but seeing those four words means that you’re on a journey to a happily ever after.
It’s how everyone’s story starts, isn’t it?
We all begin with a “Once upon a time…”
My story does.
