How My Brother's Best Friend Stole Christmas

I shifted away but he put his hand down on my knee. “And sometimes, with the PTSD and a shortened temper, I don’t handle it well.”

Every word was pulled from his lungs. I could hear it. Feel it.

“And I just thought you deserved to be with someone who felt what they were supposed to feel when you touched them.”

“I think I know what I deserve.”

“Someone who could take off their shirt and not feel like a freak,” he said, not listening.

“Those are your words. Not mine.”

“Who could be…easy with you.”

“I happen to like difficult,” I said.

“I don’t want to be difficult.”

“Stop. You’re not…difficult. You’re not. You’re not damaged-“

“Sophie.” He said my name like a scold.

“Not to me. Not to Wes. Your mom. The people at the company. To us you’re not damaged.” I expected him to argue but he only took a deep breath that shuddered and I realized how heavy that thought have been weighing on him. How badly he needed someone to come along and contradict it. “You’re the most thoughtful person I know, Sam. You always have been. I don’t know anyone who looks after people like you do. People you love. And who love you, but also total strangers. You’ve sacrificed so much to do it for people you’ll never even meet. I think maybe… you can let us take care of you a little bit. Help you, when you need it.”

“You do help me,” he said.

“I’m not talking about blow jobs.”

“I’m not either,” he said. “You think I don’t know everything you do for me?”

Of course he knew. He was the kind of guy who noticed everything. “How long have you known about my feelings for you?”

His smile was sweet and fleeting. “A while.”

“That’s why you pushed me away at the party.”

“You looked beautiful at that party. I’ve never regretted saying something more than I regret not telling you that.”

“Do you trust me?” I asked. Because really this was what it came down to in the end. We could go on and on about friendship and loyalty and helping each other when we needed it but if he wasn’t ever going to trust me, we were done. Right now. “Really trust me. Not just to be good to you. But to know my own limits and boundaries and be good to myself.”

“Yeah. I trust you.”

“Then you trust me to know what I deserve.”

He laughed. “I see what you did there. You’re so clever, Soph.”

“I am,” I said with a smile. “Do you love me?”

“So much.”

I poked him in the chest. “That’s what I deserve. Someone who loves me. It’s what you deserve too.”

He was silent and I could feel how he still wanted to argue with me. The war was still happening in his head. His heart. “Does it happen all the time?” I asked. “Feeling the wrong thing when people touch you.”

He shook his head.

“Can I touch you now?” I whispered, and he sighed.

“That’s another thing I didn’t want for you,” he said. “Asking permission to touch the guy you’re with. It’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t know, consent is sexy.” He laughed a little when I said it, which was the point. “Can I?”

“Yeah.”

I stroked his hair back from his forehead, watching his face for a flinch. Watching to see if he was hiding it. “I’m not scared of you,” I whispered. “Are you scared of me?”

“So much. I can’t…” He shook his head.

“I’ve never had someone fight for me the way you do. The way you always have. I’ve never had…” He shook his head. “Meditation room? I mean, who does that? For me?”

“Half those guys just take a nap in there.”

“I don’t care what they do in there,” he said. “You made that place for me. And I go in there every day and marvel. I just fucking marvel that you are in my life.”

“Say it again,” I said.

“I marvel—”

“That you love me.”

He kissed my nose. My lips. “I love you,” he said. “I love you so much I literally don’t know what to do with myself. Like, Sophie, I’m a mess. I can’t be with you. I can’t be without you. I need you to take pity on me.”

“Never,” I said. “I’ve never pitied you.”

His beautiful eyes met mine and I saw right down deep into the heart of him. Where the holes his father tore out of him were scabbed over. Where the new holes from his injury were still bleeding.

“I love you so much I made our lunch room into a meditation room. I love you so much I wore a thong. And did you see those shoes?”

“I did.”

I cupped his face in my hands. “I love you,” I whispered. “I always have. I always will. Do you trust that?”

“Yeah,” he said and I could tell he wanted to argue. To warn me about the dangers of loving him. But I knew those dangers and I loved him despite of them. Because of them.