Chapter 119 You're perfect
The pajama pants pool at Ryan’s feet, leaving him standing entirely exposed in the sharp, white light. I stand up slowly, my eyes never leaving his.
"There’s this old Japanese practice," I say, my voice steady, cutting through the hum of the ventilation fan. "When pottery breaks, they don't throw it away. They repair the cracks with gold."
He watches me, his breathing shallow. I reach out, running the back of my hand down the line of his throat, tracing the path of his ribs with a touch so light it’s barely there.
"The cracks aren't hidden," I murmur, my hand trailing down to his waist. "They’re highlighted. The break becomes a part of the object’s history, something to be seen...not something to erase."
I slip my arm around him, my palm flat against the small of his back, and pull him in. I don’t stop until we’re pressed together, his cool skin meeting the heat of my chest. His arms come up, hesitant at first, then locking around my neck with a sudden, fierce strength.
Then, he smiles. It starts small before it grows.
It’s the kind of smile that nearly knocks me off balance. It’s deep, reaching his eyes for the first time in days, and it hits me with a physical force. My brain starts scrambling, a frantic panic...trying to calculate exactly what I need to do, or say, or become, just to make sure he keeps that expression.
"Are you comparing me to broken pottery?" he asks, the ghost of a laugh vibrating against my collarbone.
"It’s called a metaphor, Ryan," I say, my lips twitching. "Keep up."
He nods slowly, his eyes searching mine. "Then where’s my gold?"
"I am," I say, without a hint of hesitation.
His eyes widen, a flash of genuine surprise before he lets out a huff of air. "That's incredibly narcissistic of you."
"Maybe," I whisper, leaning in to kiss the sharp point of his shoulder, then the warm crook of his neck, then his cheek. "But I’m going to shower you in so many kisses you’ll forget there were ever cracks to begin with."
I feel him leaning into me, his weight finally, fully shifting onto my frame. I hold on tighter, anchoring him, and catch his gaze. The vulnerability there is staggering, but I don't look away.
"You're perfect," I whisper, the words landing like a vow. "And if I have to spend every waking hour telling you exactly how beautiful you still are, then that’ll be my new career," I say, my voice steady, leaving no room for him to edit the sentiment.
His head is still resting against my shoulder, but I feel the slight shift in his posture. I don’t pull away. Even when I angle my head just enough to look at him properly, my hands stay on him. He suddenly huffs out the faintest breath of a laugh, his arms still looped loosely around my neck.
“Every hour?” he murmurs, one brow lifting just slightly. “Are you planning on emotionally overworking yourself?”
There’s something soft in it. Wry and familiar. It lands somewhere deep in my chest. “I’ve got nothing but time,” I reply easily.
Ryan smiles again, but this time there’s a flicker of something else in it. Something quieter. “Ouch,” he says under his breath, not pulling away. “Now you’re just rubbing it in. Bragging about your surplus of time, it’s very insensitive of you.”
I exhale softly, my forehead resting briefly against his. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
He laughs softly, shaking his head. “It's called sarcasm, Michael. Keep up.”
I huff out a quiet breath, my forehead resting briefly against his, letting the sound of it settle between us. I pull back just enough to look at him.
Ryan Ashbrook.
My Ryan.
Not the version of him this has tried to reduce him to. Not the quiet, exhausted shadow of the last few days. Just him. Still mine to hold, to know. My hand moves slowly along his back, exploring without urgency. Down the length of his spine, feeling each subtle ridge beneath my palm, then lower...over the small of his back, where he’s always just a little warmer.
He leans into it without thinking. I take a second, just a second to memorize it all over again. Then I exhale softly. “I’d still like to rephrase it.”
He glances at me, curious but quiet. I let my thumb trace a slow, absent line at his side before I speak again.
“I don’t have endless time,” I say, voice lower now. More honest. “But I'll always make all the time I need for you. You come first.”
His gaze flickers, just for a second. Not away...inward. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with that. So I don’t push it, I just stay close. Letting the moment exist without trying to fix it.
"I love you," he says after a while, and I let the words land with the weight of an anchor. His fingers dig into my hair. I can feel the small tremors in his frame. I just hold him there, two people in a cramped bathroom, refusing to let the silence be anything other than ours.
“I love you too,” I tell him quietly. He exhales. It’s soft, but there’s something off about it. Something that doesn’t quite belong to relief. It unsettles me.
“What?” I ask, my hand still resting at his back.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me in that way he does when he’s not just looking, but seeing.
“You read me too easily,” he says after a moment. “It’s like you’re skipping steps. Like I don’t get to decide what you see.”
I open my mouth, instinctively ready to tell him that’s not what this is...that I’m not taking anything from him, just paying attention. But he speaks again before I can.
“Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Of noticing things?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “Of noticing everything.”
There’s a quiet stretch of silence after that. It's full of everything he didn’t say. I look at him for a second longer, taking in the question for what it really is. Then I shake my head slightly.
“Not when it’s you.”