She sighed, tired but calm, finally. “I’m not going to be much fun for the next couple weeks.”
“I’m not with you because it’s easy, honey.”
She looked up, struck twice by that remark—first by its sweetness, but then by a tiny backhand, the implication that she was difficult. But she closed her mouth on a protest, because it was true and she knew it, and furthermore she knew it wasn’t a criticism. Merely a fact.
“Why are you with me?” she asked, careful to sound curious and not defensive.
His answer came at once. “The way you make me feel.”
“How do I make you feel?”
“Lots of ways. You make me feel understood, I guess. And appreciated, and useful. And trusted. And out-of-my-mind horny beyond belief.”
She laughed. “Good answer.”
“I feel like you get me. Whatever it is I offer, it’s something you want, or need. And if it isn’t always easy to be with you, when you’re depressed or whatever, I know I’m not easy to be with all the time either. I know sometimes I’m kind of a dick, and I know being with me, sexually, takes you way outside your comfort zone.”
“That’s really not so much of a sacrifice,” she said, blushing faintly.
“But it’s intense, and it takes effort. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not a favor,” she added.
“Neither’s taking care of you when you’re having a hard time.”
Tears welled and slipped free, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. “Thanks. It’s nice to hear you put it that way.”
“And takin’ care of you right now, this ain’t easy, either. But it’s not a favor. It’s not even a duty. It’s just what we do for each other.”
She nodded. Still, she wished her higher-maintenance aspects involved filthy, kinky sex instead of mental health crises.
They fell silent, and Laurel seemed to leave her body for a minute, as though her mind took a step back, hovering just outside her skin. She saw the two of them eight months into a romance, struck by how this looked nothing like any theoretical locket portrait she might have been carrying around, depicting the future love of her life. Physically, this man was more than she’d ever have paired herself with; more aggressively, blatantly masculine than she’d realized she was into. But it went far beyond that.
“This isn’t how I imagined it would look, being in love,” she said slowly, teasing the idea free, like an archaeologist brushing the dust from a bone. “Like, in actual love, not just the kind you feel at the start.”
“How do you mean?”
“Just this, right now… When you see people in love in movies or wherever, it’s all good feelings. Grand gestures and proclamations and kissing in the rain. I never thought it could feel this intimate, something as painful as this. Something this visceral, and ugly, and sad. But I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this close to anyone.”
His smile was small, somehow fragile.
“I mean, I never imagined I’d let a guy have sex with me during my period. But this is like… I dunno. I guess what I’m saying is, it amazes me how unafraid of the female body you are.”
“Helpful when you’re a straight guy.”
“No, you have no idea how terrified guys are of women’s bodily functions. And how gross it makes us feel. But you really don’t give a shit. Are you sure you were raised Catholic?”
He laughed. “When you’re into what I am… It takes communication. Plus I attract pretty ballsy, outspoken women.”
Laurel nodded. She had a meek streak, but she had gone after him, at the start. That was Flynn’s m.o. He didn’t do the pursuing, at least not until a woman knew what she was in for. And Laurel supposed that, yes, it did take a certain shameless type of gal to chase a man as intimidating as Flynn. It gave her a funny little jolt of pride and surprise to realize she was one of them.
“If a woman’s too shy to acknowledge the existence of her period, she’s probably not up for negotiating a rape scene,” he said.
“I suppose not. And really, I’d happily trade mystique and discretion for honesty. And to be with a man who’ll go out in a snowstorm and get me tampons.”
“It wasn’t a storm.”
“And potato chips.”
He shrugged. “You keep tendin’ my wounds, I’ll keep you in snacks and lady-plugs.”
“It’s a deal.” She laughed, caught by a thought. “Could those be our vows?”
He looked up, gaze soft but loaded. In time, he smiled. “I think we can do better than that.”
“I don’t suppose I could look at the ring again?”
“Sure.”
Her breath caught as he dug through the folds of his jacket and produced the little box. She’d been so floored when he’d first whipped it out, she’d really only registered the barest details—diamond, sparkly, proposal.
He passed her the box and she opened it, its tiny hinge silent. The ring was seated in a bed of dove-gray velvet, almost as though the diamond were floating there. “Wow.” It was big. Not garish, but larger than she’d ever have set her heart on. “Not to be tacky, but is this real?”
“Yeah.”