The double meaning isn't lost on me. I trace my thumb over the velvet-soft skin beneath her eyebrow, marveling at how someone so fierce can be so delicate.
ME
Working on it.
The simple truth is, I feel more for this woman sleeping in my arms than I ever did for the one I promised vows to. The realization terrifies me to my core.
Brushing my fingers along her cheek, I study the sweep of her lashes and the soft curve of her slightly parted lips. "What the hell am I going to do with you, Holly?"
I already know the answer. I’ve been lost since the closing arguments in the trial of reason versus risking it all—the moment her curious touches, while she thought I slept, cherished me more than anyone ever has. More than anyone’s even professed to.
The jury began deliberating our fate with that first kiss under the mistletoe.
She sighs, her arm wrapping around my waist. Burrowing her face against my ribs, she wiggles her nose back and forth before settling into just the right spot.
And the verdict?
Every broken and bruised part of me—my regrets, my desires, every scar and sharp edge—they shift, turning over and locking into place. Not just fitting, but finding the answer that’s been there all along. The one I was too blind to see until now.
A life sentence, sure. But it’s not confinement—it’s freedom I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
The scary part isn’t how I might fall for her.
It’s that I already have.
Chapter Fifteen
Holly
I waketo moonlight painting shadows across his face and his flannel shirt wrapped around me.
He's still here. Still real. His features soft in sleep, stripped of the careful control he wears like armor. One arm's thrown over his head, his shirt riding up to reveal the trail of hair—surprisingly dark in contrast with his dirty blond hair—disappearing beneath his waistband.
Carefully, work my way out from under his arm and push myself up to sitting. He makes a small sound of protest in his sleep, his hand reaching for where I was.
My heart clenches.
This isn't part of the deal—him staying. Him looking like this. Making my heart do that stupid flutter thing that has nothing to do with antagonizing him and everything to do with how his hand found mine in the dark when I admitted my fears about the presentation.
Before I can stop myself, my fingertips hover over his jaw. The stubble has passed the sharp stage, edging into something softer—something that practically whispers,touch me.
"You're kind of beautiful, you know that?" I whisper, letting my fingers ghost along his cheekbone. "When you're not being an ass."
His chest rises and falls steadily, undisturbed.
Emboldened by the darkness and the quiet rise and fall of his breath, my fingers trace the arch of his eyebrow—why does that spot feel so intimate?—along the slope of his nose, learning him by touch. My thumb brushes the corner of his mouth, and his lips part on an exhale that sends a shiver racing through me, sharp and electric.
“What am I doing?” The words escape, barely a whisper. “This isn’t… we’re not…”
But we are. Something. Maybe we always have been—two lives running parallel, separated by time, but always on chaotic courses meant to converge.
My fingers drift lower, following the column of his throat to where his pulse beats strong and steady. His dog tags catch the moonlight, and I toy with the chain, remembering how they felt pressed between us when he kissed me.
"I don't know how to do this." I rest my palm flat against his chest, feeling his heart thud under my hand. "The whole... feelings thing. Give me a balance sheet, market projections—I can handle those. But this?"
He shifts slightly, and I freeze. But his breathing stays deep and even.
I drag the collar of the shirt my nose and inhale deep. “You make me want things I shouldn't." The confession slips out, soft and afraid. "Like maybe I don't have to be too much or not enough. Like maybe I can just... be."
