Chapter Sixteen | Cracks of Armor (His Perspective)
I never meant to let her see it.
That flicker of softness—the sliver of something real beneath my deflection. But it slipped through sometimes. When I wasn’t paying attention. When her laughter chipped away at my edges or her silence felt safer than anything else.
It wasn’t weakness—it was instinct. Armor, carefully built and worn for years. I knew how the world worked. Vulnerability was currency you gave away only to have it stolen.
Still… there she was. And with her, the lines blurred.
We were laughing as we walked back through the hotel lobby. Her hair damp, salt drying on her skin, sunburn just starting to bloom across her cheeks. She looked soft and sunlit, and I hated how much I noticed.
Then I stopped. A step behind her. Not sure why. Just a sudden hit of awareness—her in nothing but a swimsuit, barefoot, trailing water across the polished tile. Me the same. No towels. No excuses.
She turned. “What? Forget how to walk?”
I smirked but said nothing. Just glanced toward the elevator. I could already feel her pulling away, that careful, measured way she did when things started to mean too much.
And maybe that was what made me do it.
I moved behind her quickly, arms around her waist, hoisting her up and throwing her over my shoulder before she could react.
She yelped. Kicked. Smacked me. None of it landed. She was light in my arms, like carrying something I didn’t want to set down.
It was stupid. Ridiculous. But it was the only way I knew how to tell her I wanted her close.
I carried her through the back door and out into the sticky, humid South Carolina heat, to the pool I knew she’d agree to only if it was warm. It was. I’d made sure.
“Ready?” I asked, grinning.
“For what?”
I shifted my grip—arms under her legs and back now, holding her like she was something I didn’t want to break. My hand slid across her thigh without thinking, anchoring her there. And then I met her eyes, gave her that half-smile that always worked as my fallback when I couldn’t say the thing out loud.
Then—I jumped.
Water hit hard, cold and fast, but it didn’t matter. When I surfaced, she was already swimming away, laughing. Her eyes sparkled when she rolled them at me—something she did constantly, and I never once found annoying.
I splashed her. Childish. But that was the game. This is how I knew her. Not in conversations about feelings or futures. But in this. The weightlessness. The pause.
She swam to the edge and rested there, pretending her heart wasn’t racing.
I followed. “What happened?”
Another eye roll.
“Do it again,” I said with a grin, already knowing she would.
And when she did—her back turned to me, the movement barely perceptible—I didn’t hesitate. My hand found her lower back, traced slowly around to the front of her stomach. Felt her tense under my touch—not from fear, but from the weight of anticipation.
She turned to face me. And I knew.
This was the moment.
I lifted her easily, hands sliding to where her thighs met curve and skin. She didn’t resist. Her legs wrapped around me instinctively, her breath shallow. My chest burned—not from effort, but from the way she fit against me. Like she belonged there.
We floated like that. Still. Silent.
Her hand found the back of my neck, fingers weaving through my wet hair like she’d wanted to do it for years. Maybe she had. I wouldn’t blame her. I’d wanted to touch her like this too—just hadn’t let myself.
And then I said it.
“I’ve missed you.”
It fell out. No sarcasm. No smirk to follow it up. Just truth, raw and exposed.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t have to.
But I saw it in her eyes. That flicker of hope. The softness she’d always given me, even when I didn’t earn it.
Then, of course, the universe intervened.
Kids burst through the pool gate like cannonballs. The spell snapped. I let go. Not because I wanted to—but because that’s what I always did when things got too close.
I climbed out, lay back on the nearest lounge chair, and closed my eyes against the sun. Breathed in like I was trying to forget how good it had felt to hold her.
But I couldn’t.
She joined me a moment later, hovering above me, her knee between my legs, body warm and close.
I opened my eyes.
Her face was inches from mine. I could feel the weight of her breath. My hand moved before I could think—up her thigh, over her side, to the nape of her neck, then cupping her face like she was fragile.
I didn’t kiss her.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But it would’ve meant too much. And maybe I wasn’t ready for that.
Then, like clockwork—“Get a room!” one of the kids shouted.
I laughed. Let go of her. “Guess we’ve been caught.”
She rolled her eyes again, real this time, but smiled anyway.
We walked back inside without talking. Up the elevator. Back to the room.
I could feel her eyes on me the whole time, waiting for me to crack again.
Maybe next time, I will.
