Vince curls his arms around me. “Door’s always open.”
It takes immense effort to leave, but my steps are light on the way back to the house. I truly hadn’t expected to have sex with Vince tonight. I’d just wanted to see him.
You gave me something back.
Those words echo in my heart like the sweetest song.
I change into pajamas and flop onto my bed, holding my phone against my chest. I can’t stop smiling, can’t stop replaying it in my head. Not just the sex, but the way we fit together. His voice. His touch. All of it.
I’m ridiculous, acting like a damn love-struck teenager.
And I don’t even care.
I text him before plugging my phone in.
Night, Vince. I hope you sleep well.
He replies instantly.You too.
11
VINCE
It’s been three days since Fletcher had his hands on me, and I’m still thinking about it.
Not in a dirty way—well, not only that—but how quickly he’d jumped into action, like he already knew what I needed.
He hadn’t waited for permission or instructions when he realized my legs were hurting. He’d just…acted. It wasn’t for the sex, either. I saw that in his eyes. He’d just wanted to help.
What surprised me the most was how my legs didn’t ache the next day. They still hurt, sure, but not as deeply as I’m used to. I didn’t suffer like I usually do.
That alone feels like a miracle.
It gives me hope—real hope—that there might be ways to manage the pain better.
I carry his kindness with me everywhere. At work. Lying in bed. He’s always there, in the corners of my mind—from his offerto let me move in, to the way he’s helped me settle, to the small, steady check-ins at work.
Fletcher is always there, giving support without even realizing it.
I want to give something back.
On Monday—my day off since the bar is closed—I drive to the grocery store. After loading my cart with all the necessities for a week, I stop in front of the spices and second-guess myself.
I have two recipes pulled up on my phone, but I can’t decide between them. Mexican sounds good. Indian sounds better. Indian also sounds riskier. Fletcher seems to have an aversion to spice, since almost everything he’s made has been mild or low-heat.
I smile to myself, imagining his face if I went full heat-level insane. It might make him look at me differently. I love some kick in my food, but I don’t want to scare him away.
Settling for the chicken lababdar, I grab enough spice to make it interesting, but restrain myself enough to be considerate. Afterward, I circle back to the baking aisle to get something for dessert. I can’t help myself. I’ve always had a soft spot for dessert. Maybe because it was the one treat I didn’t have to earn growing up. It was always there.
Tonight’s dessert is nothing fancy, just a simple chocolate cake with coconut frosting. I have no way of knowing if Fletcher even likes coconut, but it feels… homey, like something you make when you want to feel good. And the cool sweetness of the coconut might coax Fletcher into forgiving me if the lababdar is too much for him.
My phone chirps as I stand in line to check out.
Ace:I’m about to fly down there, Stone. Call me. Let me know you’re okay. Miss you, brother.
He gave up with the messages for a while, but he’s texting me again every other day, growing less and less patient.
The line moves forward before I can reply. Soon, though. I really need to let him know I’m okay. He doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark like this.
