Hard to Love

4. Seth

"You want to talk about it?" I ask her, watching her strip out of her clothes to get into the shower. She's still in her old room in her grandma's house, even though the master's been cleared out.

I get it, I do. I've stayed plenty of nights here and I know this is her place. It's her safe spot. I get it.

This room is just small. She's got a twin-size bed and barely any room in here with her bulky dresser. She has to have the damn dresser because there are no closets in this old house.

She wrinkles her nose at me, as if I'm pushing her too far. She's the one always asking me to talk, though.

"Is that a no, you don't want to talk?"

"No." The way she eyes me before answering puts a smug look on my face. She's not psycho, she's defensive and scared. After everything that happened these last few years, she should be.

"All right then," I tell her and lean back in her bed, taking up the whole damn thing as I stretch out my shoulders and stare at her ceiling fan. "What'd they look like?" I question her even though she's not going to tell me. She doesn't have to say a word though, because I told Connor to get the descriptions from Cami. I'll figure it out and make sure they don't ever make my girl feel like that again. She doesn't have to know. She just needs to be safe.

"I don't remember," she answers half-heartedly, shrugging her shoulders as she steps into the stream of the shower. With the bathroom door open, I've got a great view from where I'm lying.

I think about talking louder over the running water, of pressing her again on whether or not she's going to sell this place. It's not the right time though. It's never the right time with her.

The house is in a rough part of town, every piece of it. From the staircase that creaks, to the trim that's dented and stained, it's all worn down, but the old home is sentimental. If she wants to keep it, we can. Shit, I'll even fix it up. I want her with me though. In my house that she helped me build, that she furnished. I got that damn house for her.

Isn't that what compromise is?

I'm debating about approaching the subject, when I turn over and see her family photo on the dresser. Her dad, her grandma, and her at some park when she was just a kid. I get that this house is all she's got left of them. I swear I do. I just don't like it.

Now's not the time, but I don't know when it will be time though. Shit.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I listen to the water splashing and talk over it, raising my voice to make sure Laura can hear me.

"You really shouldn't pick fights." I don't tell her it scares me. I don't tell anyone that anything scares me.

"You can stop reprimanding me," she calls out in a singsong voice after opening the sliding glass door to make sure I hear her response. The shower door closes and then opens again for her to add, "And I didn't pick the fight, I finished it."

Her smart-ass mouth brings a warmth to my chest as I chuckle and run a hand down my face. She shouldn't have to finish any fights. That's the problem.

It's my fault for letting her stay here.

Letting her. She hates that word.

Now there's a real fight to pick. Not tonight though. Not with everything going down.

The creak of the faucet precedes the sound of the water stopping, the shower door sliding open and the pitter-patter of her bare feet in the bathroom.