“I heard you yelling. I came out to wake you.”
“That’s great and all… but don’t do it again.”
“Again? Does this happen a lot?”
He exhales sharply, eyes shadowed. “Yeah. Every night. At 2:20 a.m.”
“Too bad it’s not 4:20. We could smoke a blunt together. I’m sure it’d help us both sleep.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Yeah, I’ve tried that. Weed makes it worse—more vivid. Not an option, princess.”
“I was kidding. Kind of.”
He pulls the blanket back up like it’s armor.
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s freezing out here.”
“I’m fine. I sleep better when it’s cool.”
“Nick, it’s almost December. This isn’t California. You can’t do this much longer.”
“I’ll be fine,” he growls.
I exhale, frustrated. “Nick, stop being stubborn. Just come inside.”
He rubs his eyes, worn down. “Ha. That’s rich coming from you.”
Something in me cracks watching him—shoulders tense, eyes haunted. He’s exhausted. And alone. And I know that feeling too well. My blackened heart aches for him.
“I’m serious. Just come inside. I already feel bad enough for stealing your bed.” I pause, lowering my voice. “Besides… I have an idea.”
20
NICK
Melanie moves through the kitchen like she owns the space, like she owns me without even trying. She pulls out bread and cheese, tossing them onto the counter with casual grace, her pajama pants hugging every curve, the fabric clinging to her ass like it was designed for temptation. Her hair, messy in that effortless, I-just-fucked way, bounces slightly when she ducks her head into the fridge.
I step in close, the heat between us already starting to climb. “What are you looking for?”
“Butter,” she says, voice muffled by the open fridge.
I reach above her, arm brushing against her shoulder, just close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. I grab the butter and hand it to her. She turns, fingers brushing mine.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes flick up at me, and for a second, time glitches. I hear her words from earlier echoing in my head. The filthy things she whispered. My jaw clenches. My gaze drops to her mouth. I imagine those same lips pressed to my ear again, saying every dirty promise she made sounds like a vow. She catches the look. Her brow rises, a flicker of amusement sparking behind her eyes. Icough and step aside, letting her pass, tension clinging to my skin like sweat.
She sets the butter on the counter, pulls out a frying pan, focused but completely unaware of what she’s doing to me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to cook you a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“A grilled cheese?” I say, mostly to stop myself from staring at her ass again.
“Is there an echo in here?” She crouches to light the gas stove, and I get another eyeful. “You told me cooking soothes your anxiety, and the only thing I know how to make is grilled cheese.”
