Page 162 of Tracing Scars

“Slow is perfect.” I lift her hips, notch myself at her entrance, and lower her over my length as we both moan through the stretch. “Being inside you is always perfect. It’s home.”

And as she swivels her leisurely pace, I cradle her cheeks and feel so grateful that hers is the only face I’ve ever witnessed fall apart. Again, what was once a self-inflicted punishment has become a gift.

“You’re so beautiful,” I croon. “The reason I breathe. The reason I sleep. The reason I want to wake up.”

She nods, her eyes spilling with what I know is our mutual healing. And everything about this hideaway encounter with my wife is quiet and tender and exactly what I need—like every experience with her is.

This woman invades me—my veins and bones, fears and hopes, rage and regret. All-consuming. It doesn’t matter what identity I assume; she’s the fabric of my DNA. My soul.

As we both let go, plummeting off the euphoric precipice together, we hum our contentment, tether our hopes, and grip each other tighter, slick and sweaty limbs intertwined to one.

The hard might not be over, but the future is far brighter now.

My fingers scratch up and down her spine as I relish the way her willowy frame fits so perfectly in mine, the way she adapts to whatever we confront. “You’re like that sconce, Little Moon, shining, no matter how dark it gets.”

She nestles her head into the crook of my neck. “Is that why you think you were drawn to me?”

“Your light? Yeah.”

Straightening, she traces her fingertips over the scars on my chest, circling the most recent one that could have separated us. “I used to think that about you too.”

That has me roaring a laugh because I really pulled a bait-and-switch on her. “And clearly, you discovered you were wrong.”

“We both were,” she insists, still enamored with my past wounds or tattoos. “It wasn’t the light that brought us together. We give that to everyone else.” Her head snaps up. “It was our demons—they knew they belonged to each other. We’ll never drown in darkness because we’ve learned to recognize beauty within it.”

It’s astounding how overlooked my wife was all these years. Her ability to leap made others believe she didn’t think deeply when, in reality, she views things with keen perception. She just doesn’t always choose to hold them.

I brush my knuckles over her cheekbone. “Your demons are pretty wise—or actually, mine are for seeking out yours.”

“See?” She smiles, her brow piercing glinting as she floods the shadowy space with the undeniable trouble that always ropes me in. “Even the moon has a dark side.”

“I love you and all your sides.”

“Right back at ya, hubby. I always have.”

And the truth of that hits me. She always saw me, whether I was doing a bang-up job of feigning peace or tumbling into a self-duggrave. Whether my monsters were mammoth, my sanity thread was tattered, or my morals were messy. Rena was the glimmer of beauty I hitched myself to, guiding me through the haze. I’ve spent my entire adult life in shackles, but she held the key. Somehow, she’s enabled me to become her warrior too.

Crossing the forbidden moat to steal forever.

Gazing into the twinkling blueberry-field irises that have challenged, healed, held, and inspired me, I splay my hand over her throat, dusting her battering pulse point while anchoring every facet of who I am to her. “You were always my home. No matter which side of me is reigning, you’re my constant, baby girl. I found my way to freedom by the light of the moon.”

THE END