Page 8 of The Trust (As Above)

Jordan

The morning has been so much heavier than I wanted it to be when all our normal plans changed. It’s been weighted.

So, when Mac finally climbed out of the bed where we’d spent the time touching, feeling, being, and pulled me into the shower, I went with a sluggishness to my steps.

I meant every word I said.

I want to love him loudly.

But I’m still fucking terrified of what the means when we do.

Will his fans hate me?

Hate him for loving me?

Will they forget all about the man he’s been and only focus on how he’s with me—the orphaned foster kid that’s followed him around for years like a lost dog with no purpose?

I’m silent as he scrubs me with his bare hands and soap, his touch so damn tender that an even deeper sense of need washes over me.

Protect him .

And though there’s a part of me that feels like running away is the answer … I can’t bear it to even bring that thought closer. To consider it. To examine how it’s probably the right move.

But the thought of being without him?

It’s paralyzing.

“C’mon, Tyro,” he mutters and drags me by the wrist beneath the water.

He’s already scrubbing himself down with jerky movements when I brush my wet strands back from my face.

Reaching for him through the fog feels symbolic, and when I touch his wet skin, he comes to me. Slots against me. Fits into me so perfectly that any question in my mind that this isn’t where he belongs drifts way down the drain.

“Spend the rest of the day with me.”

I slant my forehead over his and tug him until we’re touching from shoulder to thigh, his soapy skin slicking against mine.

“You asking me out, Tyro?”

My stomach whooshes and I grin.

Press a kiss to the corner of his lips.

“Yeah, Vida. I am.”