Page 170 of Chasing Ruin
“Charlotte,” he says, firmer now. “Look at me.”
I do and everything else fades just a fraction.
“That’s how I got through it,” he says quietly.
My brows pull together. “What?”
“That night. Everything.” His thumb brushes under my eye, catching a tear before it falls. “When I thought I might lose it, I just looked at you.”
A shaky breath leaves me. “Oh really? You’re telling me you were scared?”
His expression shifts. “Terrified,” he says plainly, nodding. “Weak. Helpless. All of it.”
My breath stutters.
“I couldn’t protect you,” he continues, voice roughening. “And that… that damn near killed me.” His jaw clenches. “The only way I could even breathe long enough to stay alive was because you were okay.”
My hands shake violently against his skin as I wrap the fresh gauze, carefully securing it.
“As long as you gave me your eyes,” he murmurs, softer now, “I was fine.”
I stare at him. Silence stretches between us. My eyes darting frantically between his.
“And right now,” he continues, pulling me into his lap, his forehead brushing mine, “I’m fine. Because you’re here.”
My breathing picks up. The moment crashes into me with such a force that I can’t stop my heart from the dreadful feelings.
All while his gaze never leaves mine.
He pulls me in fiercely. Soft lips pressing against mine like a promise. Like gratitude. Like something neither of us has the words for yet.
It’s a deep, drugging kiss that I melt into helplessly.
It’s not our first kiss—not by a long shot. But it’s the first time I’m kissing him without any doubt shadowing every moment.
Before I let it guide my words, my hands, my lips.
Before I can think.
Before I can lie to myself again.
When we finally part, my forehead rests against his.
And I breathe.
The truth is loud and clear now.
I’m definitely a liar.
I don’t hate him—sure. That’s not even close to what I’m feeling now.
And it didn’t take a few bold, unforgettable words. But the persistent, indelible actions that I stopped counting a while ago.
In fact, I think I’m already descending—if not relentlessly falling. It’s slow and careful, but inescapable.
And I think it started a long time ago, one whispered confession at a time.
FORTY-SEVEN
