Page 20 of Friends to WHAT?!

Chapter Nine

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Teeth are attractive when fangs are involved. Obviously.

Leora

“Are you okay with all this?” I ask Wolfe, biting my lip as a niggle of regret starts to worm its way into my conscience. Not about the whiteboards or overhauling the man, of course, but I do feel a bit bad for bringing his entire family here to gang up on him with me. It was a move born of revenge for the emotional rollercoaster that was my abduction, not solely for research, as I’d claimed to him.

“I’m fine,” Wolfe answers miserably, touching a finger to the space besideWon’t tell you if you’ve hurt his feelingson his cons list.

I hum, somehow not convinced.

He drops his hand, sighing. “It was a bit much,” he amends. “But it’s not really bad. Growth is painful. I have support, though, and in the end I’ll be thankful for it.” He frowns. “It’s more than I’ve given the people supporting me.”

“Tough love is not the only way to love,” I say gently. “Necessary sometimes, but what you’ve given them matters, too. For every hard lesson we learn, we need a soft place to land. It’s okay to be that soft place. I’m not trying to take that away from you, Wolfe. My goal is more to…” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “Give you a sturdier base. So that when someone needs to land on you, you have the foundation to support them.” This is, of course, conveniently correlated to my desire to push him into being whatever I desire.

I think of his soft look after I asked if Amia was okay, and a frisson of electricity beneath my skin confirms that I donotwish to rid this man of his softness. Not at all, not even a little bit.

The plan is as follows: first, I will break him down into his bits and pieces so that I can see what I’m working with. Then, I’ll decide what parts I want to keep—his ooey gooey insides—and what parts I want to scrap—his tendency to be passive when the situation calls for confrontation. Finally, I’ll put him back together with all the good bits, throw out the bits that are not so good, and bing, bang, boom, we’ve got a successfully fixed up man! Applause rings out, I’m hailed as a miracle worker, and the universe rejoices.

No, actually, I wouldnotlike to discuss the god complex I have going on. Thank you.

“I never thought I was a toxic masculinity sort of man, but the very idea of being viewed as ‘soft’ makes me want to hit an ax into a tree to assert my manliness.” His nose wrinkles.

I huff a laugh and close the small distance between us to insert myself against his side in a hug. He wastes no time putting his arms around me. His chin rests on top of my head.

“Soft can be manly,” I say. “Soft like the water at the bank of a river while a strong current flows beneath. Soft like the ferns on a mountain standing tall against dangers beyond. Soft like moonlight, sourced from the fiery depths of the sun. You are not a marshmallow, and no one could possibly accuse you of it. You’re too…big. Broad. Protective. All you need is a hand in the water of your river, asking your assistance, and your strength takes over. That’s not bad, but we want you to be more like the waves of the ocean, breaking tide to see how things are at the shore and acting accordingly.”

His hands flatten against my back, covering nearly the entire length of it with their warmth.

“Soft like water,” he murmurs.

“Soft like water,” I confirm.

His head shifts, and he kisses the top of my hair. “I love you,” he says softly. “Goodness, do I love you.”

I rest my cheek against his chest to feel the rapid beating of his heart. “I love you, too,” I reply, pretending like my heart rate isn’t thundering over his in my ear. We’ve saidI love youloads of times. We had an exchange of friendship-level love letters about six months into our pen pal relationship, and it’s been a staple phrase for us ever since. Hearing it in real life hits… differently. But it’s not a big deal. Not truly. It is the same old us, just… in his deep, bone-melting timbre.

Stars, does it sound nice, though, and make my heart beg for it to mean so much more.

I remember bemoaning that his love was only friendship level when he first put the words on a page. Pen Pal Wolfe caught my heart in the second letter he ever sent me. Something about his undotted ‘i’s and ‘j’s. Something about his specific blend of humble and confident. Something about the way he spoke of his daughter, so perfectly toeing the line of wonder and terror. He drew me in like no one ever had before, and he kept drawing me in with every new golden-sealed letter he sent. His words, his drawings, and then more, when he began to trust me with his daughter? When he began to let her send me letters, and let me send her ones in return?

My heart never had a chance.

Wolfe has always been a heady substance for me, and I’ve never been much in the habit of resisting. Ilikewhen my stomach jitters as I open the door to my mailbox. Ilikewhen my skin tingles as I read a line of poetry written in Wolfe’s dotless scrawl. Ilikemelting at his abject devotion to his daughter and her well-being.

IlikeWolfe.

IloveWolfe—a lot more than what he thinks the words mean when I say them.

“This is nice,” I murmur, partially to distract myself from how exposed I feel after giving Wolfe an in-real-lifeI love you, and partially because itdoesfeel nice. I wasn’t able to really appreciate the solid strength of his arms earlier, what with me being tossed over his shoulder like hefty cargo and all, but now, with them wrapped gently around me, the height and width and breadth andstrengthof him is impossible to miss. I feel safe and cozy, and when I think about sweet little Amia growing up with a dad who can offer this sort of comfort from a simple hug, my eyes wet. Just a little.

I have a decent enough dad, sort of. He’s loving, supportive, and kind, but he’s not a Wolfe type of dad. He’s not the type of man that you get a hug from and you think, “Wow, yeah, that guy could protect me.” My dad is small and soft and the most he would think to offer by way of protection is a “Whoa, man!” and the offer of illegal drugs to “mellow everyone out a little.” My father, above all things, loves to be mellow. Whether that’s a result of my mom leaving him or thereasonshe left him, the world may never know.

It’s definitely the reason I left him. There’s only so muchmellowa girl can handle before she realizes she’s essentially raising her own father and she’s got to get out, ASAP, if she ever wants a chance at a life where a grown man isn’t telling her not to worry about the small stuff—like whether the mortgage is going to be paid or if big, scary guys with guns are going to show up at our door to “talk” with him, necessitating a trip to the hospital for more bills we couldn’t afford.

I swear I love him, I do. He’s so sweet. He’s so kind.