Clay tips his head back in a lazy nod. He lifts his hand in a sloppy salute, his arm loose as he drawls, “You. Are. Riiiight.” Each word drags out, heavier than the last, like he’s savoring the sound of them.
This isn’t the Clay I’ve come to know—the one who disappears into corners, his words clipped. He’s usually serious, broody, with long silences and guarded stares. But this version? He’s unguarded, laughing, grinning at me like we’re sharing some secret no one else could possibly get.
It feels dangerous. Like he’s showing me a piece of himself he never meant for me to see.
The smirk in his eyes sparks something hot in my chest, and I can’t pretend it isn’t there.
“C’mon,” I say softly, almost pleading, holding out my hand.
He stares at it, his brow furrowing as if he’s weighing whether to take it. For a second, I think he’ll leave me hanging and push me into the safe box he’s always kept me in. Then he exhales hard, shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and steps toward me.
He sidesteps the glitter of glass on the ground, stumbles once, then catches himself on me, his fingers sliding into mine. They’re warm, rough with calluses from years of gripping a hockey stick, and the simple squeeze sends a shiver racing up my arm. My mind betrays me instantly with thoughts of where else those hands could touch. My face burns, and I’m grateful he’s too drunk to notice the way my breath hitches.
We reach the stairs, and his boot catches on the edge of the first step. He lurches forward, nearly pulling me down with him.
I plant my feet and thrust out an arm, as if I could actually hold him steady. “Easy.”
Clay barks out a laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest. “Like you could support me. If I go down, you’ll be pinned beneath me.”
The words hang between us, heavier than they should. My stomach dips. I know he didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but my body missed the memo. My cheeks warm, and my lips press together in a thin line, trying to hide the reaction before he catches on.
But he does. Of course he does.
His brow creases. “What?” His voice is rough, confused, like he’s trying to work out a puzzle he didn’t know existed. His eyes narrow, replaying the words in his head. Then something shifts in his expression. His gaze dips, just for a second, to my mouth.
“Why’d you look like you liked the sound of that?”
My heart skips. “Let’s get you inside,” I say quickly, sidestepping the question, attempting to suck air back into my lungs.
He doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t let it go either. Instead of taking my hand again, he drops his heavy arm across my shoulders. His weight presses into me, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating through his shirt. The burn of vodka clings to him, softened by soap and that familiar woodsy scent that is purely Clay.
Step by step, we climb together, his boot scuffing, my shoulder tucked tight beneath his. Every time his hip bumps mine and every brush of his breath against my hair, it feels like the air between us crackles.
He doesn’t let go. Not as we shuffle through the front door, down the hall, and past the familiar photos I’ve grown up seeing on every trip, lining the wall. Our families, framed side by side, from Christmas mornings to summer lake trips to birthdays with too many candles. All the ways we’re supposed to belong with each other, but never like this.
My pulse hammers as I guide him toward the bedroom that the Barlowes have always claimed whenever they stayed here. His hand slips once at my waist, catching to steady himself. My breath hitches too but for a different reason entirely.
And still, he doesn’t let go.
“Are you coming to bed with me?” he mumbles, his words slurred.
I blink at him, my laughter breaking the tension in my chest. “No. I just didn’t want you face-planting again. You’d probably take out a wall this time.”
He hums low in his throat, the sound thoughtful like he’s chewing over what I said. Then he mutters, almost to himself, “You can’t blame a guy for hoping.”
Finally, his heavy arm slips from around my shoulders. He sways once, catching himself with a hand against the wall, but his eyes never leave mine. The dim light from the hallway glints off them, softening the edges of his face. It’s a side of Clay I don’t get to see often. He’s usually all stone walls and silence, impossible to read. But now, in this suspended moment, he feels cracked open, raw in a way that steals my breath.
Clay lets out a low chuckle, rough in his throat. “I’m probably going to regret this in the morning.”
For a second, I think he means the drinking. Then his hand drops, brushing against mine before threading our fingers, curling tight like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. My lungs seize. Before I can even process, he gives a slight tug, pulling me with him as his back presses against the wall.
“You never answered me,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, like he’s forcing the words out carefully. His hand slides to my waist, his thumb pressing against my hip bone as if to anchor me there. “Did you like the thought of being pinned beneath me? Am I wrong, or is that not what you want?”
My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat loud in my ears. He shifts, widening his stance enough to draw me between his legs. In an instant, I’m pressed to him, my body trapped in the cage of his heat and strength. My fingers fist the front of his shirt, clinging like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
He’s still in the clothes he wore to Christmas dinner earlier—dark jeans and a plaid button-up over a white T-shirt, a silver chain with his number 22 glinting against his skin. My eyes trace the line of buttons straining across his chest, the fabric stretched tight over his muscle, and heat curls low in my stomach. For a moment, all I can think about is the solid wall of him so close, and the way his presence presses in until it feels like there’s no space left to breathe.
The air between us turns heavy, weighted with everything unsaid. My thighs press together before I can stop myself, and even that slight shift drags a low groan from him.
