Out of the Ashes (The Game 5)

“Shh—don’t.” He shook his head, and I heard him sniffle. I heard the emotion in his voice. “I know you haven’t.”

Oh thank God. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I screwed my eyes shut and continued soaking his hoodie.

He was here. He was holding me.

Breathe.

He was here. He was holding me.

Breathe.

We couldn’t be over. He had to feel the same way, how perfectly he fit around me, how his arms belonged around me just like this. I’d do anything to get that back. I’d give up kink. I’d give up my dream of having a family. Because nothing hurt as much as losing him.

I was ready to beg.

I was just gonna try to stop sobbing uncontrollably first.

“Breaking up was the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Me?!” I cried.

“Yeah, you. I would never think of something like that.” He dropped his arms, or his hands, to my ass and then my thighs before he picked me up and wrapped my legs around his hips.

It worked for me. I locked my arms around his neck, and he carried me over to the bed, where he sat down with a grunt and kept me on his lap.

“Let me look at you, boy,” he murmured.

I hiccupped around a cry and let him go to quickly wipe at my cheeks. I bet I looked like roadkill.

Tears wouldn’t stop rolling down, but I could still see him, and for the first time in weeks, we were mere inches apart. Christ, he was so fucking beautiful. His grayish-green eyes had rocked my world essentially since the day we met. But I didn’t like the shadows underneath. He hadn’t been sleeping well—or taking care of himself properly.

I had such a weird thing about Lee showing emotions. He almost never shed any tears, so when he did, like now, it nearly broke me all over again.

“You have to tell me where we went wrong and how I can fix it.” He sniffled and brushed the back of his hand over his cheek. “We used to be so happy.”

Panic slashed through me as his façade crumbled, and he covered his face with his hands.

“Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.” I felt myself break down all over again, but I fucking refused. I couldn’t. He’d just helped me gather my wits; it was my turn now. I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed his temple. “I think we need to dig deep and admit our own flaws.” I sniffled and inched away again, and I palmed his scruffy cheeks. “We have to make it, Lee. I don’t want a future without you.”

“Me either.” He hugged me back tightly, burying his face against my neck, and I peppered the side of his head with kisses.

I closed my eyes.

Hope slithered in too slowly, too cautiously, and I was scared shitless that this would be just another half-assed round of “we’ll work things out.” We’d had a few of those this year. Except, nothing half this bad. Things had escalated rapidly near the end, culminating in the final breakup in August. Christ, August—and it was October now. I couldn’t go back. We had to find a way.

We had to bare ourselves completely, put all our cards on the table, and shove pride and bitterness out the door.

Our breathing evened out side by side, and I felt a shift inside me. A shift of emotions. Grief gave way to anxiousness. Sadness to frazzled nerves. Hope was nothing but a tiny flicker, but it was better than nothing. I prayed it would grow as we tackled our problems one by one.

We were supposed to burn.

My weight had to be killing him. My legs were still wrapped around him. I leaned to the side to pull them back, so I straddled him properly and took some of the load off.

Then I combed my fingers through his hair and nudged him backward, wanting to see his face.

He needed sleep. We both did. If his eyes were bloodshot, I didn’t wanna know what mine looked like.

“You haven’t taken care of yourself,” I whispered.

He smiled tiredly, and his eyes glistened. “Neither have you.” He touched my cheek and brushed his thumb over the stubble on my chin. “I miss you so much, Tate.”

“I miss you too.” I leaned forward and rested my forehead to his. “I miss…” Too much to choose from. “I miss all the little things. I miss your notes. I miss the mornings we overslept and we threw breakfast together in a rush. I even miss how you dog-ear pages in books and magazines.”

It used to drive me fucking crazy.

He let out a silent chuckle and stroked my back. “I’ll start using a bookmark.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want that. We had bigger fish to fry, and if we made it—if we managed to work out what’d torn us apart—the insignificant bullshit wouldn’t matter one bit.