Page 35

THIRTY-FIVE

LYDIA

I ended the call with my daughter. Being able to video chat with her and my parents every day over the last month has kept me sane.

The soft hum of the air conditioner fills the living room, the gentle breeze from the vents brushing over my skin as I lie on the couch.

Trip tucked me into a fortress of pillows and blankets, his overprotective streak in full force since the moment we got home from the hospital.

My body still aches. The stitches pull with every slight movement, and the bruises along my ribs are a deep shade of purple, but I’m healing. Slowly.

And Trip won’t let me forget it.

“Stop squirming, killstreak.” His voice is low, gruff, but there’s warmth beneath the command.

I tilt my head to find him standing in the doorway with a glass of water in one hand and a plate of sliced fruit in the other.

“I’m not squirming,” I murmur, my lips curving into a small smile as I shift, trying to sit up.

“Don’t.” His eyes narrow as he sets the plate and glass down on the coffee table. “I swear to fucking God, Lydia, if you move one more time…”

“What, Trip?” I tease, my voice soft, but the challenge is there. “What are you gonna do?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the dark gleam in his eyes makes my pulse skip.

“Don’t test me, killstreak,” he grumbles, crouching beside me, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’ll tie you to this couch if I have to.”

“Hmm.” I hum softly, my smile widening. “Kinky.”

“Don’t tempt me.” His voice is low, dangerous, but his lips brush gently against mine, making my heart stutter.

I melt into him, sighing softly as his warmth envelops me, but the ache in my ribs pulls me back to reality.

“Easy,” he says, pulling back just enough to press his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never,” I whisper, my fingers brushing against the back of his neck. Trip doesn’t just take care of me. He worships me.

For the past week, he hasn’t let me do a damn thing. He cooks. He cleans. He carries me to the bathroom every single time, refusing to let me walk on my own because he’s terrified I’ll hurt myself.

And when it was hard for me to twist the first few times– when the pain made it difficult to do the most basic things–he even offered to wipe my ass.

I was mortified.

“Trip, I can handle it,” I’d whispered, my face burning as I sat on the edge of the toilet, wincing with every movement.

But he’d knelt in front of me, his eyes dark and filled with nothing but love and devotion.

“Let me take care of you, killstreak,” he murmured, his hands gentle as he brushed his knuckles against my knee.

I’d cried. And he’d wiped my ass. I should have been humiliated, but he cared about me enough to not give a shit how gross it was. As long as he was taking care of me, he was happy.

No man has ever loved me like this.

Now, a week later, he’s still treating me like I’m made of glass.

“I’m fine, Trip,” I whisper, my fingers tracing over the curve of his jaw.

His eyes soften, but the worry is still there, buried beneath the darkness that never truly left.

“I just…” He exhales slowly, his forehead pressing against mine. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” My lips brush against his, a promise whispered into the space between us. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, his lips moving over mine like he’s memorizing me all over again.

But then he stops. “You need to eat.”

I groan, pulling back just enough to glare at him.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” His lips twitch, but his eyes are firm. “Fruit. Now.”

“Bossy,” I mutter, but I don’t argue as he feeds me.

Literally. One piece at a time. And when I try to protest, he just gives me that look–the one that makes my pulse race and my thighs clench.

So I let him.

Days pass in a blur of Trip’s unwavering devotion.

He carries me everywhere.

Everywhere.

From the couch to the bathroom. From the bed to the kitchen. And when I tell him I can walk, that I’m fine…

He doesn’t listen.

“Humor me,” he chuckles, his lips brushing against my ear as he lifts me effortlessly. “Let me take care of my girl.”

His girl.

The words send a shiver down my spine every damn time.

But as much as I love having him take care of me, I miss my daughter.

The house feels too quiet without her laughter echoing through the halls. And as much as I love being wrapped up in Trip’s arms, a part of me aches for her to come home.

I miss our movie nights. Our late-night ice cream runs. I miss her messy ponytails and the way she rolls her eyes when I embarrass her in front of her friends.

Trip knows all about her. I told him so many stories. He’s about to meet her finally, and I’m nervous. But not because I don’t think they’ll get along.

Because I know they will.

When she finally walks through the front door, her backpack slung over one shoulder and a wide grin splitting her face, my heart nearly bursts.

“Mom!”

I barely have time to brace myself before she launches herself into my arms, her little body squeezing mine so tight that my ribs protest.

“Easy, baby,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as I fight back tears. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too,” she whispers, her voice muffled against my shirt.

And then she sees him.

Trip stands by the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he watches us.

Her eyes go wide, her gaze flicking between us.

“Who’s that?”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding as I glance at Trip.

“Babe… Sorry, I mean Trip, this is Alia.” I brush her hair back from her face, my fingers trembling slightly. “Alia, this is Trip.”

Her eyes narrow, her expression suspicious in the way only a child can pull off.

“Trip?”

Trip steps forward, his movements slow, careful. He crouches down, meeting her eyes with a warmth I haven’t seen in him before.

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, her little face scrunching up as she studies him like she’s trying to figure out if he’s good enough for me.

She breaks the silence. “Do you play Minecraft?”

Trip blinks.

“I… what?”

“Minecraft.” Her eyes narrow again. “Do you play it?” Trip’s lips twitch, and I know he’s fighting a smile.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, his voice laced with amusement. “I do.”

Her eyes light up.

“Wanna see my world?”

Trip’s gaze flicks to mine, a question lingering there, but I just nod, my heart swelling as I watch the two of them.

“I’d love to,” he says, standing and holding out his hand.

She takes it without hesitation, dragging him toward the living room where her tablet is already charging.

And just like that… They’re family.

Trip moved in that night.

It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

One minute, he was carrying me to bed, his arms wrapped around me like I was something fragile.

The next, he was unpacking his bag in my room, his clothes mingling with mine, his scent filling the space like it had always belonged there.

And it does.

He does.

Our lives start to fall into an easy rhythm after that.

Mornings are filled with coffee and laughter, Trip teaching her how to aim better in COD while I pretend not to hear her calling him “the coolest guy ever.”

Nights are spent tangled in each other, his hands on my body, his lips on my skin, whispering promises that make my heart ache with how much I love him.

We are a family now.

And I never want it to end.