I watch him while he sleeps. The hard lines of his face are gone, the tension he carries everywhere else eased for once. His breathing is slow and even, his mouth relaxed in a way I almost don’t recognize.
It’s intimate in a way that touching him while he’s awake never quite is.
I brush my fingers over his forehead, pushing his hair back gently. He doesn’t stir. I want to memorize this version of him, the quiet and the stillness, the fragile calm sitting between us.
His words from last night rise up anyway, uninvited.
I love you.
He said it simply with no buildup or hesitation. Like it was obvious. Like I should have known.
My chest tightens at the thought of it, at how easily it still unravels me.
I’ve replayed that moment a dozen times already, searching for the catch, for the part where I misunderstood. Surely there’s a place where it stops being real.
Because loving him has always felt dangerous. Saying it out loud even more so.
And then the doubt creeps in and snatches it all away before I can truly bask in it. Maybe it was the alcohol.
I’m still turning it over in my head, trying to figure out how to ask without breaking whatever this is, when his breathing shifts. His eyes open, sharp even in sleep’s aftermath.
For a second, he looks disoriented, scanning the room. Then his gaze lands on me, and something in his expression eases.
“Morning,” I say quietly.
The urge to climb on top of him is immediate and distracting. He passed out before I could do much about that last night, and my body has not accepted the delay gracefully.
“Morning,” he murmurs. His voice is rough, unguarded. He stretches slightly, the muscles beneath my hand shifting. “You’ve been up long?”
“A little while.” I sit up and tuck my legs beneath me. “Thinking. Enjoying having you in my bed.”
His brow creases, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches me, steady and patient, like he knows something is coming and isn’t trying to stop it.
“Last night,” I say, staring at my hands as they twist the sheet. “What you said… did you mean it?”
The words leave my mouth, and immediately, I know it was a mistake.
There’s a pause long enough that my stomach tightens. When I look up, he’s sitting against the headboard now, expression carefully neutral.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Coco,” he says. “Drunk or not.”
The weight of it settles slowly. Ridge doesn’t waste words. I knew that. I just needed to know he wasn’t going to take it back.
“Ridge—”
He shakes his head once. “Don’t. I’m not asking for anything in return. No promises. No speeches.”
I rest my hand on his chest, the steady rhythm beneath my palm grounding me. “I’m glad you said it,” I whisper.
I don’t say anything else. Not yet. I want him to know when I do, that it isn’t a response, or because I have to reciprocate
He watches me for a second longer than necessary, his hand still covering mine, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles across my knuckles.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
I nod.
“If none of this was a factor,” he continues quietly. “Your father. Me. The mess around us. If you weren’t being boxed in or managed or boxed in. What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted to do but never let yourself want out loud?”
