Something shifts in his expression, like he was bracing for me to pull away, to tell him it was a mistake, to rebuild walls he helped me tear down.
But I'm not going to do that.
Because this feels like the first honest thing I've done in a very long time.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
The sound is jarring in the quiet intimacy of the morning. Beckett glances at it, then flips it face down without checking.
I notice.
It's a small thing. Barely worth mentioning. But something about the quickness of the movement, the deliberate way he turns it over like he doesn't want to see who's texting him at seven in the morning, plants a tiny seed of unease in the back of my mind.
I don't ask. Don't press. Don't want to ruin the fragile peace of this moment with questions that might lead somewhere I'm not ready to go.
But I see it.
And I file it away.
We lie there for a while longer, tangled in sheets and morning light, talking in low voices about nothing important. He tells me about growing up in Tacoma, about how he started playing hockey because his older brother did, about the way his ribs still hurt when he breathes too deep.
I tell him about Puget Sound, about Maeve, and how I miss her even though I'm still not ready to talk to her, about how strange it feels to walk through campus now that people whisper when I pass.
It's easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation that doesn't demand anything except presence.
Eventually, he has to leave. Morning skate at nine, he says. Coach will be in a mood after last night's loss.
I walk him to the door, wrapped in his t-shirt because I can't find mine, and I'm not ready to let him go yet.
He kisses me before he leaves — soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
Then he's gone, and I'm standing in my empty apartment, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
I close the door and lean against it, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the ghost of his mouth.
I don't feel guilty.
I don't feel like I made a mistake.
I feel like, for the first time since my world imploded, I’m actually going to be okay.
And if this turns out to be a mistake — if Beckett breaks my heart or if I'm moving too fast or if I'm still too broken to know what I actually want — at least it's my mistake to make.
Not Cody's. Not my father's. Not Judge Ravenshaw, the hospital administrators, or whoever the fuck moved Cody in the middle of the night.
Mine.
I walk to the window and watch Beckett's truck pull out of the parking lot, disappearing into morning traffic.
The unease from earlier lingers — the phone call he didn't answer, the way he flipped it over so quickly.
But I push it down.
Because right now, I need this. I need him. I need something in my life that feels good instead of terrifying.
Right now, I'm just going to stand here in his t-shirt and let myself feel something other than grief.
Even if it's only for a little while.
