His skin was damp. His hair laying heavy on his head. Heâd just showered, just, when heâd gotten the first message.
One. One that was the precursor to many to follow. One that lead to ⊠well, just too much. Too much truth, too much vulnerability.
Things which shouldnât have been said over text.
That shouldnât have been said, but only because he wasnât brave enough to stand there in front of her and say them, shouldnât have been said, but only because he owed it to her for those words to come from his lips, spoken in his voice.
Scott hated it, wanted to hate it, wanted to push away the truth of it because it was complicated and inconvenient, because it would hurt.
Hurt more than it did now.
But now, for now, he was just grateful, heavy with the weight of that gratitude as he approached her room, water still evaporating from his skin, lounge pants hanging low on his hips, feet bare.
He hadnât even taken the time to put a shirt on.
The condoms, though, they burned a hole in his pocket and he hated them because he needed them because he needed her.
Needed to be buried in her. To be surrounded by her. To be held, to be wanted, to be loved.
And oh how he did, how he had, how those feelings had changed and grown over the years, how they had evolved.
All those things that made her a foundational part of the mansion, all those things that made her an indispensable part of the team, they were reasons to love her.
But still that fear held him at bay, that self-hatred, that ever present denial. She was there, she was waiting for him, wanted him, even.
All he had to do was knock. All he had to do was cross the threshold, but still he hesitated.
But he didnât have to, wouldnât have to, because the door opened and there she was. Golden eyed glory, wearing next to nothing but Scott could care less about that, couldnât pay attention to that, because the sheer beauty of her face, a face he loved and loved and loved tore a sob from his throat.
How could he have thought that heâd be able to fight this, that heâd just be able to shut it off, ignore it.
His fingers itched to touch her, to reach out, but he didnât know where to start, didnât know how, and as her question floated soft into the hall, Scott knew he had borne the truth of it too long.
He fell, a man on his knees, in front of the woman he loved, hands scrubbing over his face before dragging through his hair.
âSo much,â he said to his palms, to the wooden floor, before he risked to look up at her. âSo much,â he all but breathed, crawling closer to her, reaching for her hips, pulling her to him.
âI love you, London,â he said firmly, holding her gaze through ruby-red. âI love you.â He leaned forward, , pressed his face against the flat plane of her abdomen, one kiss and then another laid against the cotton of her tank. âTell me you love me, too.â