Page 7

I T’S THE FIRST TIME I’ve seen Remington’s eyebrow piercing in, now that we’re not meeting just to work out. The hardware adds a striking intensity to his dark eyes, stirring longing low in my belly.

Remington is decked in black: sleek pants belted with black, jingling chains and a silky button-up with the first two buttons open, baring more of his gorgeous, branching chest and neck tattoo than I’ve ever seen. But best of all, Remington’s grin feels ten times warmer now that I know it’s for me - for our first official date, in particular. With our tight, excited hug, I’m smiling wider than ever too.

“Would you like to hold hands?” Remington extends his palm for me.

My heart flips in giddy delight. I hold out my right hand, living purely in the moment. But I freeze; I almost gave Remington my injured hand.

I try to laugh off my awkward pause. “I’d love to, but can we switch sides?”

Remington smiles, raising the opposite eyebrow to his one lifted cheek. “Sure. Is your left hand better for some particular reason?”

I laugh. “Oh, no. I just got an injury on my other hand.”

Remington stops walking. “Oh, no, can I see? Was it from work?”

I hesitate; it’s absolutely not from work, and the visible finger marks on my hand and wrist prove it.

But I don’t want to hide the truth from sweet Rem. I cautiously raise my hand, allowing him to see. “Um, there's not much showing since I put makeup on it.”

At least, I thought there wasn’t. But even under the hazy streetlamp, the bruises still show a sickly teal beneath three layers of foundation.

Remington's eyes sharpen darker than when he chased Josh out of his own gym.

After a painfully silent second, Remington’s heated breath lowers his voice. “Who grabbed you hard enough to bruise?”

My shoulders raise. “I wanted to visit my mom since she’s not well, but my dad and I don't agree on how to take care of her.”

Remington stares at my hand, unblinking for what feels like ages. Then he grabs his hair, letting out a helpless sound. “No, Lilibeth, really?”

I hate seeing him so sad, and it’s all my fault.

I shrink, but Remington turns back to me with contorted eyebrows and a panicked stare. His voice comes out strained and quiet. “Oh, this is so awful. How often does he do this?”

“Not often - at least, not physically. It’s been many, many years, actually, but I think it changed because I– I was feeling braver lately, thanks to you- O-or, us. If there’s an us?”

His eyes soften. “I’d love there to be.”

I beam. “Me too.”

“But what does that have to do with being brave?”

“I set him off by standing up to him for once. I’m sorry,” I rasp.

Remington stoops as if I’ve physically crushed him. He delicately grabs my cheeks. “Sweet, sweet girl, never apologize for this. I can’t imagine why anyone would feel the need to do this to you, let alone a dad to his own daughter. He's supposed to protect you, not bruise you.”

Oh, my heart felt those words - a gnawing ache appears, rooted deep in my soul. I look down, unable to withstand the sorrow in Remington's stare. Seeing it from a distance, I know what he’s saying is correct, but after visiting my parents, I fell right back into the panicked, fragile state my dad put me in when I left home at 18, especially since he did feel guilty, and he did try to repair it in his own way. It’s so confusing - receiving care from someone who turns violent in a flash. That’s why Remington’s touch, his words, and his gentle voice feel so new, no matter how many times he washes affection over me. His affection doesn’t rely on a threat.

Remington’s soft sigh carries an ache that stings my heart. “Can I rub out the bruise for you throughout the night?”

I bite my lip, tears pricking my eyes. I’ve never had anyone else help me do that before, but that’s exactly what I planned on doing before bed so I didn’t have to keep wasting makeup.

But I nod. “T-thank you. That would be nice.”

His shoulders soften. “Okay.”

Gingerly placing my hand into his palm, he lays my fingers flat before applying gentle, circling pressure along the bruise.

“Is this too painful?” He whispers.

I shake my head, struggling even more to keep myself from crying. My heart feels so protected by him.

Remington’s breath shakes. “Oh, God. Do you need a hug or some space? Are you still okay to eat dinner?”

I softly laugh, blinking away my threatened tears. Stroking Remington’s cheek, I give him the best reassuring smile I can manage. “Really, Rem, I’m okay. You sound more upset than I’ve been over it. Let’s just go eat dinner.”

He grows exceptionally quiet, straightening. But as we grasp hands, resuming our short walk to the restaurant, he mutters, “I wondered why you didn’t seem to stay traumatized for more than a day after what that trainer did. But of course that asshole trainer’s abuse didn’t feel any different to you. You’re swimming in it already, probably your whole life, so it was just another day.”

I don’t know what to say. He nailed down an aspect of myself that I’ve struggled to put together for a long time. Why I’m so quiet, so guarded, and so unable to do the things I want.

And I’m still at a loss on what to do about it. How to fix me.

All I can do is huddle my whole side against Remington’s tattooed arm, keeping my head lowered as we walk. Just before we enter the restaurant doors, Remington slows to a stop.

“Hey, can you look at me for a second?”

My heart flips, but I want to. Especially now that I know there’s an “us.”

When I peek up at him, he softens into a gentle smile. “There you go. I’m sorry we started off the night so heavily, but it’s not your fault, okay? You don’t have to believe it yet, but please at least listen to me; you deserve better than this.”

I huff out a smile, hurriedly blinking away my watery eyes. “Thank you. You’re the actual sweet one.”

“Oh, I’m the sweet one? Are you sure about that?” He hums, turning to wrap his arms around me. I’m so relieved to see his half-up smile that I giggle, softening into his embrace.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I whisper.

We hold each other outside the restaurant, beaming. At one point, Remington sidesteps to allow another couple into the doorway, swooping me out of the way. “Sorry, folks. I got a little distracted by this rockstar here. Seriously, where did you get this sick studded jacket? I want one.”

My bright giggle warms his smile into a three-quarter grin, this time with teeth. I’ve never seen it on him before, so I can’t stop my eyes from widening.

Remington blinks fast when he looks back at me. “You look like you’re up to something.”

I laugh. “I just have a cute– A cute gym buddy, um, boyfriend?”

His sharp, startling laugh swirls through my heart. “I cannot believe someone this cute exists. You really want to be my girlfriend?”

I give him an extra squeeze. “Of course. Are you teasing me?”

He chuckles, bending just enough to kiss my forehead through my bangs. My heart genuinely stops for a split second, restarting with a leaping sprint. Remington pulls back to find me breathless and stunned silent. He sputters into laughter. “Alright, in this case, I’m taking my girlfriend inside before she starves to death.”

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R EMINGTON LOVES TO knit. I never thought to imagine those powerful, inked arms weaving yarn into delicate, beautiful patterns, but the second he’s honest with me about his hobby, I can see it perfectly; his hands on me range from whisper-gentle to deliciously firm, speaking of his sensitivity to the material or person he’s touching.

But he’s right. If this is what real love feels like, I don’t feel hurt by Remington. Love shouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it’s too soon to call it love, but the more questions we ask each other about our hobbies, favorite shows, and random stories from our childhood, the more I ache to watch candlelight glimmering in his black eyes for years to come.

Remington catches me staring, shifting into a gentle smile. “You look beautiful in the candlelight.”

I bite back my smile. “You stole my thoughts. I was just thinking you look beautiful too.”

Remington’s eyebrows soften into startled seriousness, and a jolt snaps through my chest. If I called my high school ex beautiful, he’d hate me for feminizing him.

“U-um, sorry–” I sputter.

But Remington’s seriousness shatters into a tense concern, his eyebrows arching. “Oh, no, sweet girl. I thought it was sweet. Just surprising to hear someone say that about me. But not– Not bad.”

“Oh,” I whisper.

As my shoulders soften, the more vulnerable Remington looks: less of a panther and more of a sad kitten. I want to hold him.

But Remington drops my stare, looking at my arm. “Can I hold your hand again?”

I break into a smile. “Please.”

Lifting my bruise-less hand, I reach for Remington. But then I remember he wanted to rub out my bruises tonight. Flushing deep, I switch hands, passing over my injured one.

Remington doesn’t move at first. When I glance at him, the surprise on his lifted eyebrows quickly snuffs out - like he didn’t want me to see. Shit, maybe I understood incorrectly. What if my bruise is triggering or disturbing for Remington to see too?

But his soft, sweeping touch scoops up my hand, settling our palms together. He’s so careful with my hand that a fuzzy warmth seeps up my arm, settling my tense shoulders.

Remington softly skates his thumb over my bruises. “Does it hurt to hold hands?”

“No,” I whisper.

Within seconds, Remington has me laughing again, chatting about nothing and everything. But all my focus is on our hands; it’s never felt so powerful and warm to hold someone’s hand. I run my thumb over him in return, hoping he feels just as good.

“I want to take care of you too,” I blurt out.

He chuckles, rubbing my thumb back. “That’s sweet, but what exactly do you mean by taking care of me?”

“You’ve helped me feel more secure, and I’d love to help you feel the same, somehow. E-even though I’m not sure how, or if I can.”

He looked touched until the last part, a crease forming between his brows. “What do you mean, you don’t think you can?”

“I don’t know how to say nice things to make you feel good, like you do. Or how to ask hard questions, even if I care about the answer - or care about the people I’m asking about, with my whole heart.”

Remington breaks into a sly grin. “Is that a deeper confession than the one we already had at the gym?”

I flush, ducking my head. What do I even say to that? The answer in my heart screams “yes,” but that feels too massive to share this early.

Remington chuckles. “Sorry, I had to tease you back a little. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

I peek at him. “I want to know.”

“Oh?” Remington leans back in his chair.

He looks so cool and casual, relaxing back so fluidly that his long arms seem to stretch on forever - still able to softly hold my hand. The butterflies in my belly flutter even lower. I have to cross my legs to relieve the aching desire between them.

But Remington happily sighs. “Listen, I find you so endearing, sexy, and sweet. You might not think you’re capable of being supportive verbally, but you do a lot for me without needing words. You help me feel safe just by being yourself.”

I lean in until I’m pressed against the table. “So do you, truly. That’s why I’m so curious about you. Like about what you want in life or don’t, and what you enjoy, a-and also about—” I check over both shoulders before softening my voice. “About how you feel about where you work and— And what your interests are there.”

He studies me for a while, leaving me to fidget in silence. “Am I hearing right that you’d like to go to the club with me?”

I shrink. “I don’t know. I think so, but it’s new for me, so I don’t know what I’ll actually feel. But I’ve also been curious for a long time. Like, since Gabby and I started talking about it - and that was a few years ago.”

Remington’s half-up grin appears. “Have you been talking to Gabby more about the club then?”

My heart flips. “Yes, but— But my worries are the same as always, and they’re not about you. I don’t know if I’d like being around a lot of people for these types of things, but– um– privately might be okay, maybe–”

Leaning forward, Remington stops me before my rising shoulders hit my ears, his gentle touch brushing my arm. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. There’s no rush to share anything intimate right away. You don’t have to tell me anything unless you want to — and also feel ready.”

His words should relieve me, but I drop my focus to our empty plates, a sense of defeat dropping like a bowling ball in my gut.

But Remington’s voice deepens. “Although, if you were already interested in what Gabby and I are into and feel ready to just take a peek, maybe I can show you around soon.”

I gasp, jolting upright. His gaze flickers over me, so I grip my napkin for support.

He dropped his offer as if it were a casual invitation, but I know it’s not. If Remington trusts me to visit Club X with him, that’s opening yet another heavy door between us that I’ve been craving to look behind.

“Y-yes, I– I’d like– I’d love to.”

Remington settles back into his chair with a bright laugh. “You really are so sweet. How about next Tuesday night, when there’s not as much of a crowd?”

I smile. “Oh. Thank you. Yes.”

“Of course. But just to be perfectly open with you, it’s a personal rule of mine to keep things vanilla until we’ve discussed formal consent in detail.”

My chest loosens. “Okay, yes, I like that. And I expected it. I’ve researched this a lot.”

Remington’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Before we met, but also lately. Just in case we– um– dated, and you wanted to do anything like this with me and were okay with me wanting to keep it private.”

He grins wider with my every word. “Now I really can’t wait to talk about this more with you on Tuesday.”

“Can we have a discussion about formal consent there?” I blurt out.

Remington looks just as surprised as I am for asking such a tremendous question to rocket our path forward.

But Remington melts into a heavy-lidded smile, drawing warmth into my lower belly. “You’re that interested in playing with me?”

I nod. “B-but if you’re not, or it’s too early, I understand.”

He shuts his eyes before leaning forward with a groan. “Oh, no, sweet girl. I can just feel that pull between us, and I’m still worried I’ll want to go too quickly for you. If you hadn’t suggested it first, I’d keep questioning myself if you wanted to go this far, maybe ever.”

“I do,” I whisper. “Is this not normal?”

He brings my hand to his lips. The soft kiss he plants on my bruised wrist steals my breath. “No, not for me. I almost never play with anyone. Only two people in my adult life.”

I suck in a tight breath. My racing heartbeat throbs in my groin. “T-thank you.”

“Thank you , Lilibeth. This is kind of a big deal for me.”

“For you? ”

He laughs, sitting back. “My job title might make that confusing, but I mean it. I’m—” He hums, twisting his lips. “It takes a lot for me to want to open up.”

As his dark stare dissolves into pure vulnerability, my heart tears at the seams. He’s trusting me, even though it’s scary. Just like I’m trusting him.

I break into a smile. “T-that makes me feel special.”

“Good,” he rumbles. “Because you are.”

Huddling together, our chat extends beyond just some extra sexy fun; I feel like we’ve shifted our friendship into the most romantic friendship I’ve ever experienced.

We’re growing into each other’s presence by the minute, laughing just as much as we settle in to whisper secrets. I wish tomorrow was Tuesday.