He pats the chair next to him. It’s worn-in, oversized, the kind of seat that invites comfort. I move to him, drawn in by something instinctive, curling into his lap.
“This really is the best seat.”
His arms close around me, a barrier against everything else, and for once, I let someone just hold me.
His chest is firm and warm against my cheek. I feel the steady beat of his heart, the measured rhythm of his breathing. One of his hands finds the nape of my neck, fingers sinking into my hair. The other rests just above the small of my back.
The silence stretches again, but this time, it’s not empty.
It’s filled with care.
Hex doesn’t try to change my mind about Ashley. Doesn’t drown me in comfort or reach for the right thing to say. He just holds me as if I’m something worth keeping, even when I have nothing left to give. Even when I’m tired. Frayed. Not strong, not shining. Just… me.
And somewhere between the hum of the crickets outside and the warmth of him wrapped around me, the thoughts start to drift.
I stop bracing. I stop replaying.
Eventually, I stop thinking altogether.
I just sleep.
Pale golden light stretches across the ceiling in soft ribbons.
I’m in bed.
Barefoot, but in yesterday’s clothes, and stretched across crisp sheets that carry the scent of cedar, laundry soap, and something distinctly him.
It takes me a second to register how I got here.
The last thing I remember is bourbon on my tongue, the slow thump of his heartbeat beneath my cheek, the sound of crickets, and the occasional rustle of leaves. I must’ve fallen asleep on him out on that oversized chair. And he—God—he must’ve carried me to bed. Didn’t wake me. Just let me sleep.
My heart folds in on itself a little.
I glance to my right. The other side of the bed is empty, but the warmth lingers in the rumpled sheets, a silent trace of where he’d been.There's a faint indentation on the pillow, and I swear, I can almost remember it. A dream-like impression of arms around me. Of being held. Of not waking once all night.
Which is insane.
I always wake up.Always.Usually twice, thanks to my bladder and the lovely curse of being a woman nearing forty.
I blink again and smile, dazed and soft.
“Damn it,” I murmur to the quiet room. “I missed our first night actually sleeping in the same bed.”
I press my face into the pillow, indulging in the kind of childish pout reserved for teenage crushes, even as the ache in my back from sleeping in jeans pulls me back to reality. Definitely not a sexy wake-up moment.
Somewhere in the distance of the house, I hear faint movement. A low clink of glass or maybe a cupboard door closing.
I throw the covers off and pad across the cushioned carpet toward the bathroom.
When I catch sight of myself in the mirror, I stop.
Jesus.
My mascara’s done some kind of modern art beneath my eyes, and my hair looks freshly humiliated by a gust of wind.
I quickly run a comb through it, then brush my teeth using the travel kit I brought. A minty reset helps, but when I blink up at my reflection again, my eyes feel… wrong. Dry. Burned. Almost crunchy.
Contacts.Fuck.
