“Yeah. First place.”
She looks at me, and her eyes are a storm of confusion.
And I’m terrified.
Terrified that if she digs too deep—if she realizes how far gone I already am—she’ll run.
“Come on,” I say, loosening my hold but taking her hand. “You’re exhausted. And you smell like burnt figs.”
She lets out a watery laugh. “You don’t smell like roses either, Becker.”
“Shower?” I offer, half-joking, half-hopeful.
She meets my eyes.
There’s a beat of hesitation.
Then she shakes her head.
“No. I just… want to lie down. Will you hold me?”
That hits harder than any punch I’ve ever taken.
She’s not asking for sex.
Not asking to forget the day in a haze of orgasms.
She’s asking for comfort.
Intimacy.
“Yes,” I say, voice rough. “I’ll hold you.”
I lead her to the bed.
We lie down fully dressed, on top of the blankets.
She curls into me, her back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her, tangling our legs.
Her breath evens out.
She drifts to sleep.
I stay awake, staring into the dark.
Feeling the weight of her body against mine.
Feeling the weight of my jealousy.
Hoping she’s dreaming of me—
And terrified that in the quiet corners of her mind, she’s still fighting ghosts of him.
61
Blind Spots
Sloane
