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Rhodes---Morning

I lean against the door frame, taking the sight of her in. This is the purest form of Amelia. She’s stolen my t-shirt from my grab-bag after her shower, leaving me with just a pair of sweatpants. My shirt doesn’t do much to hide those sinful curves. The hem falls to Amelia’s midthigh and as she dances to the sounds of her home, I trace the flexing of her calves. She shifts her weight back and forth, as she adds something to the striped bowl in front of her. I hear the roars of dinosaurs on the television, the sound competing with whatever she has blasting through the wireless speakers on the counter. Her hair is in the loosest of buns, piled high atop her head with several strands falling down onto her shoulders, a weaving of lavender and rich umber tones that I want to run my hands through.

The kitchen island separates the two of us and my gut tells me Amelia needs this moment. I have come to understand that she doesn’t get many of these simple days, where the darkness that seems to loom over her fades . I understand why she had been so reluctant to allow me in this sacred space. This is her temple and I am merely here to worship. Despite all the progress we’d made over the last few months, I feel like there are still pieces of herself she clings to, as if letting them go would make her seem weak. I’m not sure how to convince her that she can let her walls down, that I will catch her should she fall. I would bet she is dead set on not relying on men for anything.

I clear my throat and move closer. My bare feet are soft against the tiled floor, and I take notice of the way her kitchen feels like a warm embrace.

“I hear you breathing, Ro.” I can hear the wicked smirk on her lips, and my heart nearly stops at hearing that name fall from them. I don’t know if she meant to give me a nickname, but I also am not about to stop her from doing it either.

“What are you making, kochanie ?” I glance at the counter behind her, taking note of the ingredients. “Are you cooking for me?” There is not a measuring cup or spoon to be had. Amelia is making this recipe from memory.

“What does that mean, ‘kochanie’ ?” She looks over her shoulder, hands still mixing whatever it is in front of her.

“Sweetheart.” I reach her, wrapping my arms around her plush middle. I love her curves, the way her body melts into mine. She isn’t a woman of harsh lines, of thinness and protrusion. Amelia is a gentling moment in my life. She refuses to deny herself the great pleasures in life: good food, laughter, living.

“No, really.” She laughs as her body relaxes into my chest. “What does that mean?” I see the mixture of cinnamon and sugar in the bowl, and it brings a smile to my face. She’s making cinnamon rolls—because of course she is.

“It means ‘sweetheart’, I promise. I heard my mother say it when I was young and I always loved how it sounded.”

“Say it again,” she whispers, her hands sprinkling sweet mixture along the strips of dough spread along the floured surface.

“ Kochanie .” I feel the gravel in my voice, the rumbling of it now a timbre deep in my chest. My hands cover hers, and I push us flush with the counter, our size difference evident. Amelia’s are rougher than they should be, perhaps the result of years of baking and living life. It strikes me, creating an unsettling feeling in my chest at the thought of her life being anything but simple, anything but wonderful.

She stills and I wonder if she’s comfortable against me. It is as if she’s fighting some sort of response to being trapped between the counter and me. I notice her breathing change. I track it, counting her intakes, pauses, and exhales. Amelia is box-breathing. Fuck .

I step back, giving her distance and waiting for her to turn around.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, shame creeping into her voice. I say nothing, giving her the space to say what she needs to, to continue if she wants. “I wish things were different. That I was different.” Her hands move again, rolling the dough and placing it in the baking dish. I hate the defeat permeating her body right now. Her head is bent low, shoulders slumped. Her hands move slower now, sadness wholly encapsulated in her motions.

“Amelia, you’re fine.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. I shouldn’t have cornered you.”

Her hands slap the counter, the smack echoing in the kitchen. She whips around, her hair a whirl, and those grey eyes are furious. Her bottom lip quivers, out of anger or sadness, I’m not sure.

“I am not fine, Rhodes. You don’t get to tell me otherwise. I am not fucking fine. If I was fine, I wouldn’t have frozen just now. I know you felt me trying to not freak out—to remain calm but it is so godsdamn hard . If I was fine, you’d be able to pin me with your body. You’d be able to hold yourself against my body and cage me in. You could treat me like any other godsdamn woman and fuck, I want that.” Her arms fly out as she lets out every single emotion she’s kept locked in that steel trap of her heart. I’m not sure where this is coming from, this anger bursting from within her.

“I would give anything to not freak out when you touch me. Fuck. And don’t you think I don’t wonder when you’ll get fed up with me? When I won’t be fucking enough for you? Because who would want a broken woman, right?” I see the moment she breaks, the weight of what she has just revealed settling in the air, and it guts me to my core.

I don’t see her as broken and to know that is how she sees herself is unsettling. Amelia is the most confident person I’ve ever met. She doesn’t miss a thing; those eyes will unnerve the most steadfast man. She carries herself in a way that screams independence. She is infallible and unshakable to the world. This woman in front of me right now? She is the complete opposite.

I lift my hands in front of me, turning my palms to her. “I’m sorry, baby. I am so sorry.” The fire leaves her body and she starts to pick at her nails.

“I want to be good enough for you. I’m so fucking terrified that I am not.” I watch as her eyes fall to the floor, the rage she previously displayed now a simmering pile of embers.

“Amelia. Look at me,” I say, hoping I can convince her that she is enough. My voice stays soft, praying the cadence of my words will be enough to break through her wall. “Eyes on me, kochanie.”

She looks through those thick lashes, nervous as hell.

“What set you off? Was it being pinned? Was it that you couldn’t find a way out? I want to understand so I can make sure you are safe with me, in all the ways.”

“Yes.” Amelia’s response is meek.

Simple, one word answers are not acceptable in this moment. Her response was too visceral for anything less than a full explanation. “Yes, to what?” I push, needing more than what she’s offering.

“I was fine with you standing behind me. But then you put your weight against me and pinned me.” There is no bite to her tone, not an ounce of fire behind her reasoning. “My body didn’t know what to do. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

The look on her face breaks my heart. I will not allow her to squelch her vibrancy—not for me, not for anyone.

“Snap at me. Tell me when I’m doing something that you don’t like, something that triggers a response in you. I want you to feel comfortable enough with me to fly off the handle like you just did.”

“Rhodes. You don’t—”

I interrupt her. “I do mean it. I want you to call me on my shit, Amelia. Please.”

Grabbing her hand gently, I pull her from the kitchen and head toward the couch. I sit first and then pull her into my lap. Her fingers curl into my shirt and something in my gut knows that Amelia Conte is starving for affection—as if she’s never truly been loved in her life. She presents a good front, but under her layers, there is just a girl who wants the most basic of things. I glance at the television before pulling the blanket over us. Jurassic Park is playing in front of us.

“Do you have a favorite movie?”

She tenses, a pause hanging in the air. I know that she is fine with our position. It isn’t a new one and Amelia is fully able to escape if she feels the need to. I peer down at her, as the realization hits me. Her favorite movie is something she deems deeply personal.

“Are you going to make fun of me?” A smile breaks out across my face. The way she is looking up at me, her eyes full of hesitation and unease with the possibility of rejection.

“No. I will never make fun of you, baby.”

“This one.”

“So, you like dinosaurs, Amelia?”

“Who doesn’t like dinosaurs, Rhodes?” She playfully snaps back, running her tongue along her bottom lip before glancing back down. “I never was one for fairytales, anyway.” She leans back in, shrugging against my chest and I tighten my hold on her. Her skin is soft and I feel moisture hit my body as she silently weeps. My thumb runs against her arm, hopefully soothing Amelia. It is taking every fiber of restraint to not push her, asking for the reason she’s crying. I settle for holding her, being an anchor in the emotions she’s releasing.

My eyes dance around her home, taking in the little pieces of her. The narrowness of her handwriting, that grocery list posted to the fridge; the grey sweatshirt--well worn to the point of holes–thrown across the couch, shoes haphazardly laying against the door frame.

I’ll worship at her temple for all the ages if it means I get this softness.