Page 60 of Always Love You More

“You’re not fucked up,” he says like it’s a fact.

“No, but I am.” I sigh. “I’ve never really had friends … or anything more.” I feel his thumb brush lightly against my waist. “But I like you. You make me feel like I’m not fucked up. Like I fit.” I peer over at him. “I don’t know if that even makes sense.”

“It does.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been trying to fight it, telling myself I’m no good for you … but you make me feel that way, too.” He pauses. “When I’m around you, I feel like myself.”

“Jameson?” I murmur.

“Yeah.”

“You can stop fighting it now.”

“What do you—”

I shift in his hold, rolling onto my side so our faces are just inches apart, giving him a clear invitation.

He lets out a soft breath, his eyes fixed on mine before they drop down to my lips. Slowly, like he’s giving me time to back away, he leans in and presses his lips against mine.

The sound of my alarm going off makes me flinch. I turn to look over at the clock, not believing it’s already six thirty.

Me and Jameson talked all night, and I shared things with him that I’ve never told anyone before. Details about my family that I keep locked away, the struggles I try to hide and the things I secretly wish for. Jameson listened to everything, never judging, and it felt good, foreign, to be seen in the way that he sees me.

He shared just as much—the moments of his life that he keeps hidden behind the mask he wears so well. I knew things were hard for him, but I hadn’t realized quite how bad they really are.

As he spoke, I could tell these were things he’s rarely ever talked about, or maybe things he’snevertalked about. And even though I was tearing down my walls for him, there was a part ofme that couldn’t believe he was doing the same for me. That not only did I trust him with my secrets, but he trusted me with his.

The kiss he gave me was short, more gentle than I would have imagined, but things felt different after. Like we both stopped fighting the obvious and accepted what we clearly are to each other.

The alarm continues to blare, and I slide out from under Jameson’s arm, hitting the top of it. The room goes quiet as I switch on the bedside lamp then turn back to him, a gasp falling from my lips.

“That bad, huh?”

“Do you want something for the pain?” I stammer, my attention slowing on his bruised cheek and eye that’s nearly swollen shut. “I should have asked you last night. I wasn’t thinking.”

He shrugs as if it’s nothing. “I’m fine.”

“No,” I tell him, “you’re not, so stop saying that.” Before he can give me an excuse, I’m already starting for the door, stopping to grab a change of clothes on the way. “Be right back,” I call over my shoulder.

Tiptoeing out of my bedroom, I get dressed in the bathroom then move down the dark hallway, relieved when I see my father still passed out on the couch.

After grabbing the few things I’m looking for, I quickly head back for my room. When I open the door, I find Jameson standing, with the bed made and his shoes on.

“How did you …?” I shake my head. “I would have helped you.”

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he watches me walk to the desk and drop all the things I’ve collected.

“You running away or something?”

I roll my eyes. “Someone has to take care of you.” I pull out the desk chair. “Sit.”

He drags his gaze from the desk to me, and I arch a brow. Finally, he lowers himself into the chair.

I hand him a banana and another frozen bag of peas.

He tilts his head.