35. Maren

I wake to calm.

The sun streams in through the crack in the curtain, hitting my face just right. From what I can see, the sky looks extra blue.

Last night runs through my head. He helped me. Selflessly. When no one else would. And it only makes me love him more—the man who hates people is the most caring of them all.

I roll over to see Locke staring at me, big dark brown eyes surrounded by sunken dark circles.

"Good morning," I whisper. "What time is it?"

"Almost eleven."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"No," he sighs, reaching out and tugging me into his chest. The scent of rain still lingers on his skin.

I place the palm of my hand on his cheekbone and play with the blond hair behind his ear. "Why not?"

"Multiple reasons," he answers before he takes a deep breath. "One of which is I heard from my mom after you went to sleep."

"Is everything okay?" I ask, stiffening.

There's a wave of heat radiating off Locke's body that I just now notice. His skin is slick with sweat, but somehow freezing at the same time .

"She left me a voicemail." His face pales, his eyes squeeze closed, like he doesn't want to play it back in his head. "She was hallucinating."

I press myself against him as if I'm trying to meld us together to absorb some of his pain. "Are you sure?" I ask, unsure myself if this is even the right thing to say.

"Considering I haven't died in a plane crash, yes."

Definitely not the right thing to ask. We wince in sync. I have no experience with this, but I figure the best thing I can do is be there for him.

"I didn't want to be gone when you woke up," he adds, slipping out of the bed, "but I'm going to go talk to her."

Sitting up straight, I grab his hand in reassurance. "I'll come with you," I offer, but Locke takes his hand back, almost in embarrassment.

"No, just stay here." He turns away from me so quickly, without looking me in the eye, it stings my heart.

He pushes through the French doors to the bathroom, but I get up and quickly stick to his heels. I lean against the vanity as he splashes cold water on his face then avoids me in the mirror and busies himself in a drawer looking for nothing.

"Look at me," I urge softly.

Locke pivots with his back to me and heads for the closet instead.

So, I follow.

"Look at me."

He doesn't—just pulls a crumpled black T-shirt off the floor and puts it on.

"Look at me!" I demand, gripping his elbow and fighting his strength to get him to turn.

He blinks back the tears I only now notice when his eyes catch mine.

"Hey," I say, my tone laced with concern.

He tries to shrug me off. "Let me get dressed."

"Let me come with you," I plead.

"Why?" he scoffs, turning to fully face me. His face is now rigid with no sign that he was ever about to cry. "So you can see what a shitshow this is? How despite everything I do for her she turns back to drugs? You want to watch me break?"

"No," I say. "I want to come because I want to be there for you."

With his shoulders hanging, Locke slumps down to the ground against his drawers before he buries his head in his hands.

His breathing becomes erratic after a few seconds. "I'm scared," he forces out. "That you will think differently of me. That you'll see me in her. I'm scared you won't want this anymore. Because nothing good comes from letting people in, letting them see the fucking mess of my life behind the curtain. I won't be this idea to you anymore. The shininess wears off, and suddenly, I'm real. Real becomes too much. And I'm fucking terrified that I'm going to turn into her when you leave me. Maybe I'm already her. Taking from you like a selfish asshole, sustaining myself, living for the next hit you give me. You're all I think about."

I sink down into his lap, and with my legs straddling his thighs, I lift his face to mine. "I'm not here for you to call me a good girl, Locke, or live in your house, or use you for anything. I know who you are, and I'm here because I care about you. Not Locke the golfer. Not Locke the sexy, brooding mystery. I like you . Because you're more than you give yourself credit for. You're not selfish. You love deeply. Deeper than most people are maybe even capable of. Nothing I see is going to change my mind about you, nothing's going to make me feel differently about you. I want to come because you need me, even if you won't admit it to yourself, just as much as I need you."

I try to hold back my own tears, but I'm not as strong as Locke. Two break free and one slides down each of my cheeks.

His eyes flash pain mixed with clarity before he presses his lips to mine. I taste my own tears, and Locke holds me so tight against his torso that my breaths become shallow.

When he pulls back, I've never seen someone look at me the way he is now—an epiphany so intense swirling behind them, and it terrifies me in the best way possible. It's almost like I know what's coming, but there's no possible way for me to prepare myself. Even if I had a century, his next words would still be like a wrecking ball to my heart.

I'm ruined. And Locke Hughes holds all the pieces.

"I love you, Maren."

My chest constricts. He relaxes like he's been holding it in for days, weeks. Locke's irises are more golden than I've ever realized, the tiniest lines bursting from his pupils that you'd miss if you were any farther away than an inch. Everything about him is more than I thought was possible.

And at this point, there's no hesitation when I reply, "I know. I love you too."