Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 253(@300wpm)
All I had were the clothes I’d arrived in, which had been thrown in the trash, so I wore his boxers and t-shirts, lying with him on the couch while he watched TV, sleeping all day in bed because it didn’t matter how much I slept at night, I was always tired. I didn’t get into the tub and knew I never would again.
Bastien was always there, his hands on me, his kisses on my neck and collarbone, his warmth a beacon of sunshine in my winter of misery, but he was different. Quiet and distant, visibly scarred. He’d never been a man of many words, but now, he didn’t say anything at all.
I knew I needed to move my stuff from my apartment because I couldn’t keep living like this, wearing clothes that were at least five sizes too big. I only had a couple more things to pack up, but that shouldn’t take more than an hour or two. It seemed crazy to think about packing when I’d literally died a few days ago, but sitting around the house without my things wasn’t a long-term solution.
We’d just finished lunch, sitting across from each other at the table. I noticed Bastien wasn’t working out in the morning like he usually did. He seemed to have completely stopped his life, like I did. He wasn’t on his phone either, like he’d abandoned all of his responsibilities to be with me night and day. But he still wasn’t really there with me.
“I need to go to my apartment,” I said. “I can’t keep wearing your clothes, as comfy as they are.”
His eyes were on me until the moment I said that. Then they darted away, focused on the view again. “I get it.”
I had no other choice but to show up in Bastien’s sweatpants and one of his sweatshirts. All I had were my shoes. I waited for him to say something more, offer to come with me or call his guys to move my stuff, but he did none of those things.
He just wasn’t the same, and I didn’t like that. “Can your guys still move my stuff, or…?”
His eyes came right back to me as quickly as they’d darted away, but now a stillness gripped his entire body, a tightness in his muscles and his tendons. His eyes hardened, his eyebrows furrowed, and despite how stern he looked, he seemed truly present. “You still want to live with me?”
“Of course I do.” Nothing had changed between us. My feelings for him were still a bonfire of emotion. If anything, I wanted to live with him even more and never wanted to set foot in that apartment again.
His stare remained locked on mine, and it was the first time he really looked at me, at least in the way he used to.
“Unless you don’t want me to—”
“Of course I do.” He swallowed like there was emotion in his throat he had to beat down. His eyes were packed with intensity and desperation and heat so hot I could feel it across the table. “I wasn’t sure if that was something you still wanted.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I blurted, having no idea why he’d made that assumption.
His stare continued, but the sharpness of it went dull and his presence started to recede once again. It was the only time I’d witnessed him withdraw rather than push forward, to make his presence small rather than command the entire room.
“This is why you’ve been so distant…”
His eyes dropped momentarily as he shifted his jaw, as if debating with himself whether he should speak further. “I’ve been waiting for you to leave me. Waiting for the shock to fade and a new fear to replace it.”
His words hurt me like a paper cut on my heart.
“I should just shut my fucking mouth right now. But you were right to leave me. As long as you live in my world, you’ll always be a part of it, which means you could be a victim of it…as we just learned.” He looked away. “You were right to want a law-abiding citizen with a nine-to-five. You were right to fucking run from me.” He swallowed and let out a sigh. “If I were a better man, I would do the right thing and walk away…but I fucking can’t.” His eyes watered momentarily. “I can’t fucking do it.”
“I’m not leaving, Bastien.”
His eyes remained elsewhere, the moisture still coating them. He had better control of his emotions than others because he could fight the tears before they even had a chance to truly form. But his fingers tightened into a fist on the table, and he clenched them.
“It wasn’t your fault. Adrien is the only one to blame.”
His eyes didn’t find mine again, glued to the table, the restraint visible in the tightness of his body.