When I Was Theirs

64. Emmy

64

Emmy

I don’t think either of us are entirely sure what this is anymore.

“It’s definitely fading.” Jared hands me a clean towel from the washing he insisted on doing as I wash my face. “And your eyes are clearing up.”

I blink at myself in the bathroom mirror, assessing. The whites of my eyes are still more pink than anything else. But he’s right. The marks around my neck are much lighter than they were.

The memories don’t fade quite as quickly.

A thud sounds behind me, and I flinch back. My brass toilet paper stand tips over, sending paper rolling across the room. “Sorry.”

Silence. “You’re okay, Em.”

His voice is gentle.

I nod, staring down at the floor. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

I’m well-accustomed to healing up injuries. This shouldn’t be any different. And this time, I have Jared.

I never had anyone before.

“Emmy,” he breathes. The basket lands with a thump on the floor, and I swallow as he steps closer. “Look at me.”

I lift my chin. I don’t know why my eyes feel wet. Jared’s finger gathers the first drop from my eyelashes, carefully wiping away the tears.

“This is stupid.”

He doesn’t move when I lean forward, burying my face in his chest. Instead, he lets out a quiet breath, wrapping his arms around me. No questions. No pushing. Just a gentle acceptance that this is what I need. “No, it’s not.”

Ben’s heart was always strong and fast. A hummingbird, ready to take off until he was close to the end.

Jared’s heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek. A steady, regular pulse. Comforting.

And somehow, he realized it. Maybe because every morning I wake up with my ear pressed against it, gravitating toward him even in my sleep.

“I’m okay now,” I whisper.

His hand smooths over my hair. “Good.”

But neither of us move.