I wake slowly, awareness returning in pieces. The weight of an arm across my waist. The steady rhythm of breathing that isn't mine.
Beckett is still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before. The bruises on his cheekbone have faded to yellow-green, and there's a small cut above his eyebrow that's healing crookedly. His dark hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles from where I ran my fingers through it last night.
I don't move. I don't want to wake him yet.
Instead, I study him in the morning light — the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rests against my hip like he'sstill holding onto me even in sleep, the vulnerability of someone completely unguarded.
I wait for the guilt to come.
The shame. The regret. The voice in my head telling me I moved too fast, that this was a mistake, that I'm using him to forget Cody.
But it doesn't come.
All I feel is relief.
Relief that last night happened. That I chose it. That for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt like myself — not Cody's girlfriend, not the mayor's daughter, not the girl whose life is falling apart.
Just me, making a choice that was entirely mine.
I replay the night in my head, but not the physical parts — though those were... so good. Real in a way that made my skin feel too tight, and my breath catch in my throat.
What I keep coming back to is the moment before.
The way he pulled back and asked, Are you sure?
His eyes searching mine, giving me space to say no, to change my mind, to pump the brakes even though we were both already halfway undone.
Cody never asked.
The realization hits me with unexpected force.
In the year we were together, Cody never once asked if I was sure. Never checked in. Never gave me room to hesitate, reconsider, or even think about what I wanted.
He assumed. He took. He moved forward because he wanted to, and my wants were secondary.
I didn't even realize it was missing until Beckett gave it to me.
The contrast makes my chest tighten.
Beckett stirs beside me, his arm tightening briefly around my waist before his eyes open. He blinks in the sunlight, disoriented for a moment, then his gaze finds mine.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Hey."
We lie there for a moment, neither of us moving, the weight of last night settling between us.
I need to know something.
"Are you going to regret this?" The question comes out before I can stop it. I may not feel guilty, but I still have my doubts of what this is between us.
His eyes don't leave mine. "No."
No hesitation. No qualification. Just certainty.
That’s all I needed to hear. I feel myself relax. I believe him.
"Neither do I," I whisper.
