“That’s not it, is it?” I whisper, letting my hands slide up the sides to his face. “Please talk to me.”

“You can’t stay here, Sierra.”

“Don’t you want me?” I beg.

In one motion, his discipline dissolves, and he loops his arm around my waist, pulling me against his body. The other hand grips the back of my head, putting my face level with his.

“Of course, I want you. Of course, I want you to stay. I should tell you to leave, don’t you understand? If I had any balls, I would have sent you away right now. Break your heart now before I ruin your life.”

Then he kisses me. It’s a hungry, passionate devouring of each other. It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to anything else, but the kind that settles our doubts.

It’s the kind of kiss that says he wants me to stay.

Logan

I’m so fucking weak. When I was given the chance to save her, push her away so that she could live a happy life without me, I caved.

I couldn’t stand the sight of her thinking that I wouldn’t want her. That anyone wouldn’t want her. It’s insanity.

The truth faces me like a bright light now. I want Sierra more than I have ever wanted anything.

Holding her in my arms feels like I’m not such a piece of shit. Like I could make her happy. Keep her safe.

We finally pull away from our heated kiss, and it’s so hard to let her out of my grasp. I need to feed her something. After the day she’s had, she needs to eat.

So I make her sit down and put the warm bowl of pasta in front of her. When she takes a bite, her eyelids flutter and she makes a soft moan.

It does things to me.

“This is delicious, Logan.” She devours one bowl in no time, so I scoop another helping for her before starting on my own.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Where did you learn to cook?”

“My brother taught me,” I answer, my voice clipped. I can feel her watching me.

“You don’t want to talk about him.” She says it as a fact, but I can sense the question there.

No better time than now. If I really want her to stay, I need to think about opening up at some point.

“He died two years ago.”

Her rapt attention is on me now, her face softer, and her lips parted just slightly.

“We grew up in foster homes together. So when he came here, I followed closely behind. And he made a nice home for us. It was the first time I really had a home. A proper family. He got me a job at the shop because he knew I had a talent for drawing. I saved up enough money to buy my bike. For a couple years, it was really nice.”

My voice lets out a little quiver in the last word. Shit. I do not want to start getting emotional. Why is talking about this so hard?