"Stay," he said. "Will you stay?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." Another squeeze. "Good. That's—I'm glad. I'm really glad."
His breathing started to slow. His body grew heavier against mine, that post-sex exhaustion pulling him under. Still, he kept talking—quieter now, half to himself.
"I like this. I like you. I like that you didn't tell me to be less. Nobody ever—" He yawned. "Nobody ever wants all of it. They want the fun parts without the—" Another yawn. "But you—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
I waited. His breath evened out, deepened, and slowed to a rhythmic pace.
He was asleep—mid-thought, mid-word—gone.
I stared at the ceiling.
The room was quiet except for the soft rhythm of Pickle's breath. Outside, Thunder Bay hummed its midnight hum.
There was a beautiful man asleep on my chest, and suddenly, my mind began to race.
I've been here before.
I knew the feeling.
Three weeks.
That's how long I'd filmed Theo before we kissed. Three weeks of convincing myself it was a professional interest. Three weeks of watching footage at night, finding new things to notice—the light on his jaw, the grace of his fingers on piano keys, and the crooked smile he saved for quiet moments.
I'd fallen in love through a lens. Told myself it wasn't happening until it was too late to stop.
Pickle shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. His arm tightened around my waist.
This is the Theo pattern.
I named it. The recognition didn't make it less dangerous—if anything, it made it worse.
Because I knew how this ended.
I'd done it once.
I'd do it again.
That was the pattern. That was who I was—someone who watched and wanted and then held on so tight he crushed the thing he was trying to keep. Someone who braced so hard for the end that he made it happen.
Pickle deserved better than that. Pickle deserved someone who could accept all of him without already planning the exit. Someone who could stay.
I wasn't sure I was that person.
But lying there, with his weight warm against my chest and his breath slow against my skin, I wanted to be.
Chapter nine
Pickle
The pillow smelled wrong.
Not wrong-wrong. Not bad. Just not mine. There was soap in it—something clean and adult, like a hotel lobby or a man who owned more than one towel.
