Page 71 of Never After Us
Lina
ChapterTwenty-Two
Mara
This time, I don’t even try to stop the tears.
They slip down my face, curve along my jaw, and fall onto the page.I jerk back instinctively, like I’ve committed some kind of harm against a letter already carrying more sorrow than anyone should have been asked to hold.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, lifting the paper toward me, trying to protect it from myself.My fingers tremble as I smooth the damp wrinkles.“I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Alec says quietly.
And then—before I can brace myself, before the thought even forms—his thumb is on my cheek, brushing away the tears.
It’s gentle.It’s tender.His thumb moves across my cheek with a softness I wasn’t prepared for, and the moment changes something in me, as if the whole room tips a fraction toward him.
Not because I understand what he meant by it, or because I think he meant anything at all.
But because my body recognizes the warmth of being cared for in a way my mind hasn’t caught up to yet.His thumb lingers for a breath longer than it should.Not long enough to call it a decision.Long enough to feel it everywhere—down my chest, through my nerves, unfurling something warm I didn’t invite.
I’m aware of his breath.The nearness of him.The way my heart forgets its rhythm entirely.
He feels it too—I see the moment it registers.His eyelids flutter, just once, like he didn’t mean to cross that boundary and now can’t find his way back.
He drops his hand slowly, almost unwillingly, like his fingers aren’t convinced they’re finished with me.
“I didn’t mean—” he starts, voice low and rough in a way I’ve never heard from him.
“I know,” I whisper.
Except I honestly don’t know.Not really.Because nothing about that touch felt accidental.Nothing about it felt like a mistake.It felt like instinct—pure instinct from a man who reaches before he thinks.Who probably cares before he admits it.
My chest expands and contracts too fast, too full, and too hollow all at once.
“It’s just ...”He stops, looking away as if the words are fragile in his hands and he’s afraid to drop them.“You don’t have to apologize for crying.”
“Sometimes I feel like I ruin everything I touch.”The confession breaks loose before I can catch it.“Crying is for weak people.Sam—” The name burns on my tongue.I shut my mouth quickly.“The thing is that I ruin everything, you know?”
I don’t want to give Sam this moment.I don’t want Alec hearing the guilt that still clings to me, the unresolved arguments and doubts that never had an ending.
Alec’s head snaps up anyway.His reaction is immediate, sharp around the edges—not at me, but for me.
“Why would you say that?”he asks, brows knitting with a force that feels protective, not angry.
I look down, ashamed at how exposed I suddenly feel.I choose to focus on the ruining things rather than the crying, even though both are things I would prefer not to discuss.“It sounds ridiculous, but ...when I was little, after I got sick, my parents divorced.My dad said once—‘She’s ruined everything since she arrived.’I wasn’t supposed to hear it.”I swallow thickly.“But I did.”
Alec’s expression goes from confused to ...angry?I’m not sure, but I continue almost whispering, “And it didn’t stop there.A principal told my mom I was too much work.And Sam ...”My voice falters.“Sam was my husband—Mila’s dad.We fought the night he died.I accused him of cheating.He left.And he never came home.It was a car accident, but ...”
The tears rise again, relentless.
“I almost lost my daughter,” I murmur.“And some days I feel like I’m still messing up everything for her.Even now.Even here.”My breath unravels.“I came to Seattle, and the first thing I did was ruin your peace.”
I brace myself for annoyance, distance, and some polite platitude.
Instead, Alec gets close.It’s close enough that I feel the warmth of him seep into the spaces I’ve kept cold for years.His gaze is soft in a way that terrifies me, because it holds no judgment at all.Only understanding.Only him.
“Mara,” he says, quieter than before.“You didn’t ruin anything.”
