25. Chapter Twenty-Five

I'm not sure there's ever been a place more comfortable than Josh's arms.

After we get cleaned up, there's some sort of wordless agreement that we need to get back in bed, and I find myself curled up next to him, his arm around me and my head settled in the crook of his shoulder. I pull the comforter up around us and close my eyes, and he seems to suck in a short breath before kissing the top of my head. And it just feels so fucking good, so fucking right.

I move my hand to rest on his stomach, and he sets his hand on top of mine, his thumb stroking back and forth over my skin. And neither of us say anything. I'm not sure there's anything that needs to be said right now.

Later, of course. There's a lot to say later. There's a lot to figure out. Like—fuck—when is he going back to Omaha? Shit. I don't want to let myself think about that right now, though. Because we'll have to figure it out. We'll have to figure something out.

He must feel me tense up or something, because he starts caressing my forearm, this light touch that's just so incredible and comforting. And he kisses the top of my head again.

"I love you," he murmurs into my hair. He shifts us so we're lying on our sides, facing each other, and then his hand continues a path up my arm, across my chest, and up to my neck. And he draws us together for a gentle kiss.

I'm completely fucking overwhelmed right now.

Honestly, I might be close to tears. I really don't want to cry. Why the fuck would I even be crying? I'm fucking ridiculously happy. But I feel tears at the corners of my eyes.

I pull away and lower my head to rest against his chest, and his hand's now rubbing my back in long, soft strokes. Fuck, it's good. I feel good.

I've never felt this good.

"Tell me again," I say quietly.

And he kisses the top of my head, pulls me tighter against his chest, and whispers, "I love you. Always."

I feel myself nodding, but I also might be shaking. It's understandable, right? All these intense emotions? And I'm also suddenly feeling quite tired, like I could just fall asleep right here, pressed up against his chest. It's warm and comfortable, after all. So, so comfortable.

That's probably what happens, because the next thing I know, I'm waking up to a darkened room. And an empty bed.

Fuck.

It's a brief moment—only a few seconds, really—that my heart starts racing and there's this nauseating drop to my stomach. But then I hear noise coming from out in the kitchen—the clinking of a pan on the stove, maybe, and someone humming.

Fuck. My fucking heart doesn't need to be doing things like that to me. He's not going to leave. Not this time. I believe that. I believe him. Or at least, I'm trying to.

I drag myself out of bed, throw my clothes on, and head down the hallway, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time. Just after six thirty. Shit. Somehow, I'd slept the whole afternoon away. I wonder how long he's been awake.

His humming stops when I step out of the hallway. He's in the kitchen—cooking up something that smells incredible—and he glances back at me over his shoulder, grinning.

"Hey, sorry, I was getting hungry, and you were sleeping so soundly, I didn't want to wake you up," he says.

He sets down the cooking spoon and turns to meet me as I shuffle into the kitchen. A couple of grocery bags sit on the counter next to a cutting board and knife. There's a small pot of rice on the stove and then a pan with strips of beef plus green peppers and onions all in some kind of sauce. Stir fry, I guess.

"Looks amazing. You cook?" I look from the food to him, and he's still smiling at me, but his eyes have softened or something. Shit, there's that thing happening in my chest, and it's warm. I'm warm.

I don't wait for him to answer because I just really, really need to kiss him. I reach out and run my hand up his forearm—thanking whoever invented sleeves that can roll up, because holy fuck, I love his arms. Then, we sort of move together, and his lips are on mine, his hands sliding up my chest and clasping behind my neck.

"Mmm, yeah... I cook," he says between kisses.

"Yeah?"

"Mm-hmm."

His tongue explores my mouth, and he moans into the kiss as he presses himself up against me. Fuck, he's already hard. I am too. And suddenly my body's tingling all over, and it's almost an ache, a need.

He pulls away a second later, groaning, and he turns back to the stove. "Sorry. I gotta finish this. It's almost done, but I don't want the sauce to burn."

"Of course." I step up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, watching over his shoulder as he stirs the beef and then lowers the heat.

"I, uh..." He leans back into me and tilts his head slightly, and I see that as an invitation to kiss him. "Mmm. I was gonna say..."

Yeah, he doesn't say anything. But he does moan when I find that spot right at the base of his neck that's so sensitive. And I'm discovering just how much I love to hear that sound. I suck a little harder, and my dick throbs against his ass when he moans again. God, I want him. Now.

But I can be patient.

I kiss him gently one more time and loosen my arms from around him just enough. He makes another sound that's some combination of a whimper and groan, but then lets out a long breath and straightens up.

"You were saying?" I ask, my voice low and my lips still brushing his skin.

"I was...? Oh, right. Um, I went to the grocery store," he says. "I hope you don't mind that I bought a few things. The stuff for dinner and then some drinks, and a cheesecake for dessert. Just a few things since there wasn't much here."

I glance at the grocery bags again and at my tiny kitchen, and that feeling in my chest—the happy fluttering warmth—morphs into something tighter and not so comfortable. Fuck.

"Um, yeah, sorry, uh, I've been meaning to go shopping..."

It's okay. It's not okay, but it's okay. Really. Fuck.

He shuts off the heat on the stove and turns around in my arms, and his hands come up to my cheeks. He's smiling gently, but I can't really hold his gaze.

"This is okay, right? Dinner, I mean?" he asks quietly.

"Of—of course, yeah, yeah. Th-thank you."

He frowns a little, because, yeah, I know he wasn't looking for a thank you. He was just trying to do something nice. But I can't help feeling all my failures as they suddenly jump out at me. I'm fucking broke, with an empty fridge, a truck I can't keep running, a house that's falling apart. One angry boss or bad weekend away from being out on the streets again.

Fuck. Fuck my life.

I look down, and when he tries to draw my mouth back to his for another kiss, I pull away.

"You should know I'm broke. I guess it's not a secret, what with my truck battery and—and my empty fridge and all that shit. I, uh, could tell you my life story—the parts you don't know—if you want to know why I'm such a fucking failure. But, I—"

"Coop," he cuts in, and I let out a long breath and squeeze my eyes shut. "Coop, you're... you're not..."

I hear him sigh quietly, and he takes my hand and threads our fingers together. God, it feels good. I want to just hold onto his hand like this forever, I think. Forget about everything else. Ah, fuck, why'd I even start this conversation?

"Coop, I don't think you're a failure. And I do want to know you," he says. His voice is soft and earnest, and it's somehow soothing. "But I really, really don't want you to feel embarrassed or less than or anything because of material shit or money or any of that. Really. That's not what I care about."

He brings my hand up to his mouth and kisses my knuckles. Fuck, I love that feeling. Then he pulls me back into another hug. His lips brush my cheek.

"I care about you. I love you," he says. "All of you. Full fridge or not."

He's trying to get a laugh from me, but I'm not quite there yet. Everything wants to come out right now. All the shit that I am fucking embarrassed about. All the shit that he doesn't know, because he wasn't here. Because he hasn't been here. And I probably shouldn't let it. First date days should be happy, right? But I'm a dumbass, so of course I start talking again.

"I didn't graduate high school."

God, saying that out loud somehow really hurts. I know it's because school and academics and all that had been so important to my mom, and that fact—the fact that I'd only gotten partway through my sophomore year—seems like the worst thing I could possibly admit. But Josh doesn't react other than to brush his lips across my cheek again, giving me the strength to keep going.

"My mom moved us here to White Hills when she got too sick to drive to the hospital for her treatments. I had to take care of her, and after a few months, I couldn't do that and go to school. She didn't realize it, she was too sick. Fuck, she'd have been so fucking disappointed in me."

That's it. That's the fucking honest truth. I'd told Mel the same thing. And Josh's reaction is predictable, I guess.

"No, man. No, she loved you. I remember that more than anything else. Your mom—"

"She didn't know. She didn't fucking know. I didn't lie, but I didn't tell her either. She was too sick." His arms tighten around me, and he doesn't try to protest again, so I keep going. "She died just after my sixteenth birthday, and there was no money left, no savings, nothing. Everything she had went to pay her medical bills. I got kicked out of the apartment she'd been renting—and in the middle of fucking winter. If not for Mel giving me a job and Angie letting me stay at her place sometimes... And fuck, even still. I'm still fucking broke. Half the time, I barely have enough money to cover rent. I've got less than twenty dollars to my name right now, and—"

"Coop," he says softly, and his lips press into my cheek again.

"I'm sorry. I—ah, fuck, sorry. All you wanted was to make dinner, and I... turn it into this whole big fucking thing. I'm sorry."

"No, that's..." He lets out a shaky breath, and I almost apologize again, but before I can, he's kissing me softly. His fingers thread back into my hair. His tongue tastes me. His chest presses against mine.

After a moment, he pulls back, and I can't quite look at him. I mean, I'm pretty sure I didn't fuck anything up, because I do believe he loves me. But I can't help feeling all the fucking negative shit that I always do when I think about everything—how I'd dropped out of school, how I'd been homelessfor a time, how I'm still barely getting by. Fuck.

He guides us over to sit at the table, and he holds my hands in his. We're both silent for several minutes, then he squeezes my hands lightly. When he speaks, his voice is full of emotion and a little shaky.

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea about all that. And I need you to know..." He trails off, and when I risk a look up at him, he's staring at our hands, his expression tight. He swallows and then continues. "I want you, as you are. I love you, as you are. You're amazing and strong and compassionate, and you care about the people around you. That's always been who you are. And I know that's what your mom would see in you too, if she were here. I'm sorry I wasn't here with you, to support you and help you through all that. But I'm here now, and I want to be here with you and support you now... whatever that means. I just want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy."

Yeah, I'm fucking crying now. Thanks, Josh.

I shake my head and pull my hand away from his to wipe my eyes. I have absolutely no idea how to respond to any of that.

"I do hope that my cooking makes you happy," he adds lightly, and he reaches up and touches my cheek, his thumb brushing away another tear. "Because I love to cook. And no offense to Mel, but I think several days in a row of diner food had me wanting a home-cooked meal."

God, who the fuck is he? Some magic shit is going on right now because he's somehow got me smiling, even through all my fucking tears.

"I-I do like food." That's the best I can do. Sounding like a dumbass again. I hope he loves dumbass me anyway.

He laughs and then stands up and pulls me with him. "We should eat, then, before it gets cold?"

I nod, and together, we get out plates and utensils and set the table. Then, for the first time in the five years I've lived here—in this shitty little old house that I can sometimes afford—I'm not alone when I sit down at my kitchen table to eat dinner.