She fits against me perfectly. The curve of her spine aligns with me, her head tucked under my chin, her soft skin warm against mine. She smells like the lavender soap from the bathroom and her own scent that I want to memorize. To keep.
Fuck.
For the first time in six weeks, my brain is quiet. No arguing with myself about why this is a bad idea. Just this. Her in my arms. Vulnerable. Trusting.
I’m not a relationship guy. I’m a one-night, no-strings, gone-by-morning type of guy. I don’t stick around for breakfast. Don’t learn last names. Don’t wonder what happens next.
But holding Remy like this—I get it now. I get why people choose the same person over and over instead of moving on.
I want this. Wanther. That’s the problem.
She shifts in her sleep, and my arm tightens around her before I can stop it. The word rises in my throat without permission.
Stay.
I don’t say it. I clamp my jaw shut so hard my teeth ache.
My thumb traces circles on the back of her hand without conscious thought. She makes a small, content sound and burrows closer.
I’m so fucked. And Remy Ray is worth every complication she brings.
I close my eyes and let myself have this. Tonight. These stolen hours where I can pretend she’s mine to keep.
Even though I know better. Even though wanting things is how you lose them.
When I open my eyes again, sunlight is streaming through the windows, and the bed beside me is empty.
I sit up, disoriented. The bathroom door is open, and the shower is running.
Reality crashes back.
Last night was an accident. A moment of unconscious closeness that meant nothing.
Except it meant everything to me.
I scrub my hands over my face and get out of bed. By the time Remy emerges from the bathroom, fully dressed and back to her usual composed self, I’ve shoved every feeling from last night into a box and locked it away.
She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Good morning. The shower is free.”
“Thanks.”
I should leave it there, but instead I’m staring. I know I’m staring. And I can’t stop.
She’s toweling off her hair, and there’s a strip of damp skin at her collarbone.
She catches me, and her lips part. Her eyes light up with a flicker of interest, and I’m terrified of what she’s about to say.
So I open my mouth and sabotage whatever this is before it starts.
“You snore.” My words come out flat. Dismissive. “Just so you know.”
The flicker dies, but instead of looking hurt, she laughs. “I do not.”
She doesn’t, but I don’t say that.
I disappear into the bathroom and stand under cold water until my head clears.
The rest of the morning is all business. We discuss the breach over breakfast, coordinate the follow-up procedures on the drive, and plan the debrief with my brothers during the flight.
