"When it's not, just know... I see you too."
The room is still, save for the faint creaks of the ancient heater and the soft rhythm of his breathing. The minutes feel stretched thin, like they might snap under the weight of the quiet.
Last night filters back in pieces. Chance’s hand finding mine in the dark, that quiet "I see you too" that somehow felt bigger than four words should.
Opposite sleeping positions were supposed to make this easier. Less weird.
But the reality? I feel him everywhere.
And everything I feel is so very different from our usual antagonism.
The mattress dips where he lies, his broad frame somehow both too close and impossibly far away.
Even head-to-foot, his presence fills the room, each subtle shift of the bed like a ripple I can’t ignore.
Every quiet exhale stirs something restless inside me.
I should close my eyes. Will myself to sleep. Remember my goal. There’s no room for getting distracted by this quietlyunguarded version of my brother’s best friend—vulnerable in a way I never thought I’d see. Impossible to ignore.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift carefully, propping myself up on one elbow.
His shirt rides up slightly, exposing the edge of his lower back, where smooth skin disappears under the waistband of his pants.
I hesitate for a moment before I finally let my fingertips graze the fabric—a tentative touch—and my chest tightens.
Soft and worn from too many washes, it hugs his solid, unyielding strength. Strength you don’t get from desk jobs or weekend gym trips.
What am I even looking for? Some sort of proof that this moment isn’t as precarious as it feels? Some excuse to let myself keep touching him?
I move to his arm, brushing over his tricep. He’s warm, his skin heating the fabric where it stretches taut over the defined muscle. I let my fingers linger, skimming just enough to feel the strength beneath the surface, the life I’ve never been a part of.
Letting my fingers drift lower, I trace the edge of his wrist. The faint ridges of tendon beneath his skin feel like quiet power. He’s utterly still, his breathing even and steady, and for one reckless moment, I let my hand settle over his.
His fingers twitch, a small movement that makes my heart lurch. I freeze, holding my breath as the seconds tick by. But he doesn’t wake.
“You’re going to make this so much harder, you know that?” I whisper into the quiet. The words are too big for the moment, too raw, but they escape anyway.
He shifts slightly, a soft noise escaping his lips, and I press my palm to my chest like I can keep my heart from beating out of it.
But he doesn’t stir further. His breathing evens out again, the steady rhythm a soft comfort I can’t explain.
“Is this what it feels like?” I murmur, my voice barely audible even to myself. “To let someone in?”
The words hang in the air, unanswered, as my fingers curl lightly around his. For a long moment, I let the quiet hold us. Let myself trace the edges of a feeling I don’t know how to name.
Eventually, I sink back against the pillow, careful not to wake him. My hand lingers a second longer before I pull it away, curling it against my chest like doing so might hold onto the moment.
Chapter Six
Chance
Jesus fucking Christ.
The first thing my brain registers is warm, soft skin, the intoxicating scent of vanilla, and something uniquely Holly filling my lungs.
Somewhere between our late-night confessions and dawn, I've ended up with my face nestled against her inner thigh, and my mouth a whisper away from territory that would definitely get me court-martialed by her brother.
