When we entered, Austin held up his finger for me to wait at the entrance and quickly moved around the summerhouse’s large wall-length windows to draw the heavy curtains to a close.

I watched Austin as he turned back toward me, that same disbelieving expression on his face highlighted by the glittering sky full of stars above, shining in through the skylight.

His black T-shirt was tight and slick over his defined and muscled torso. His damp jeans weren’t faring much better. His dark, messy hair had dried into a haphazard style, bunching and sticking up in all directions, which, if possible, only made him more attractive in a wild and rugged way. His tattoos bent and flexed with each step he made toward me. It almost looked as though the Jesus on his crucifix were breathing.

My heart was like a butterfly in my chest, the rhythmic beats of blood being pumped fast through my body, so loud I could feel them thrum under my skin from my head to my toes. Something intensely sexual glittered in Austin’s dark eyes, and instinctively, I wrapped my arms around my chest as though to stop myself from the unfamiliar flushed effect of his attention.

Austin stopped right before me, his warm breath dusting across my face. I stared at the dove tattoo on his neck, trying to focus on the feather-stroke details on its spread wings, just to try and calm my frantic heart.

A finger brushed a strand of hair from my eyes and gently rolled down my cheek and along the bridge of my nose. I caught Austin’s top lip twitch and curve into a smirk.

“The rain has freed your freckles, Pix,” he said in a raspy voice.

My stomach rolled at the fact that my heavy makeup had washed away, and I began to panic at being so exposed.

“I—”

Before I could finish what I wanted to say, Austin leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of my nose, shocking me into stillness. His lips continued to pepper along my cheek until they reached my ear, where he whispered, “They’re beautiful. I love seeing you without the war paint. I love seeing the real you underneath the armor.”

Forget poetry. Forget mushy sentiments, hearts and flowers, and men who know how to play a girl with words. Just hearing that Austin liked me, the real me, the broken anorexic girl underneath the layer of makeup, brought a lightness to my heart that I had never felt before.

“Austin…” I whispered back, and he reached out to take my hand with one of his, leaning forward, chest against chest, and closed the door behind him with his other hand.

It was like he could sense my apprehension at his closeness, and with a squeeze of his hand, he whispered, “Come on. We need to get dried off.”

Austin gently tugged on my hand, and I fell into step beside him. We were heading to the large open fire at the end of the summerhouse, our own little place of peace as we were closed in from the drawn curtains and locked door. As we passed the sofa, Austin let go of my hand and grabbed the throw pillows and red blanket, placing them on top of the sheepskin rug on the hard wooden floor.

Austin turned to me and cupped my cheeks. “Sit down, Pix. I’ll get the fire going.”

Swallowing back my nerves, I lowered myself to the floor, taking a seat on a red pillow as Austin moved to the wood bucket and began stacking the fire one log at a time. Taking a match from the side of the fire, Austin struck it against the stone of the fireplace and ignited the piled-high logs.

Twisting to kneel before me, Austin met my eyes and asked, “You thirsty? Hungry? I think there’s water in the fridge.”

My heart flipped at the mention of water. He remembered I only drank water. Not soda. He was still trying to make me feel comfortable. He was always trying to make me feel comfortable.

Reaching up, I laid my shaking hand on his rough and stubbled cheek. “I’m good, Austin. Just… just sit with me…”

This time I caught him swallow, and warmth settled in my heart when I realized he was nervous too. Austin lowered himself to the rug beside me, raising his knees and wrapping his arms around them.

Casting his gaze forward, he stared at the rising flames of the fire, lost in his thoughts. The logs crackled and that gorgeous campfire smell that only emits from burning wood filled the entire room.

“I should never have taken you there tonight, Pix. And for that I’m so f**kin’ sorry,” Austin eventually said. I could tell by the deep timbre of his voice that he meant it.

His apologetic sentence startled me. Austin seemed so torn up, so embarrassed by the events of tonight, so lifting my hand, I ran it through his messy hair in comfort. Austin’s eyes closed at my touch, looking exhausted, and he slowly began leaning toward me, until he was lying on his back, his head resting on my leg, and from his lips, he released a tired but contented sigh. It reminded me of being back in the hospital garden of remembrance all those weeks ago.

As soon as the back of Austin’s head hit my thigh, I stiffened and the usual panicked thoughts began whirring in my mind. Is my thigh too fat? Is he disgusted by what I feel like beneath the thin dress? Am I repulsive to him? Am I—

Austin was gazing up at me with his almost-blue, pearlescent scarab-esque eyes, just watching me fight through my demons. For some reason, his lack of response to my anxiety helped it fade away. Austin didn’t apologize or pander to my inner panic like he had in the past. He just stayed still and let me ride them out, only patient affection toward me in his open expression.

It was at that moment I realized I had never been so comfortable with someone in my life. It was the closest I had ever felt to normal in years, and my heart filled with a thin veil of hope. Hope that Austin could break through the iron-thick wall around my heart. Hope that this disorder might not deprive me of feeling what it was like to be in love… Hope of being able to be with someone and not cause me to tumble into my thoughts of self-hatred and despair. Hope that opening my heart wouldn’t lead it to break.