“Better. Much better now. Come sit.” He tugs me by the fingers. I let him pull me to the couch, dropping my bag on the floor. The leather is cool but soft. I barely perch on the edge like I’m afraid it will bite me.
Beckett sinks to his knees in front of me. My pulse stutters. He picks up my foot, unlacing my sneaker, and slips it off. He does thesame with the other, lining them up next to my bag. His hands are warm, and I shiver.
“So, you hurt your head?” I say, the words clumsy. I want to fill the silence, keep things moving so I don’t have to think too hard about the way he’s looking at me.
“Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Concussion and dehydration. The IV helped, but my head’s still a mess. Sorry it’s so dark. That’s why.” He gestures at the dimmed lamps and the blackout curtains. “One of the downers about concussions: low lights and no screen time. I probably shouldn’t even be watching TV.” He laughs and winces.
Leaving space between us, he settles back on the couch. I try to relax, but every cell in my body is aware of the empty spot next to him. He picks up a tablet and starts scrolling.
“Alright, movie rules. No true crime, no documentaries, no history, and absolutely no dogs dying.”
I snort. “No pack romances. I hate those.”
“Noted.”
We scroll through the endless options, vetoing each other’s choices until a title flashes by that I can’t resist.
“That one,” I say. My throat is tight. “That was my brother’s favorite.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, and I want to pull them back, but Beckett just nods and selects it.
“Guns and cars it is. It’s Pierce’s favorite too.”
The opening credits roll. Without warning, Beckett reaches for me and picks me up like I don’t weigh more than a stuffed animal, pulling me against his side. He’s on the part of the sectional that lets him stretch his legs out. He tucks a blanket around us, taking forever to make sure every inch of me is covered, even my feet. I don’t know if it’s the blanket or the way he’s holding me, but I feel safer than I have in a long time. And it smells so fucking good.
“This is a bad idea.” Shit, I hope I didn’t say that out loud. So, I cover with, “It’s like a nest in here. I might fall asleep.”
Beckett laughs. I feel it more than hear it. He kisses the top of my head, his arm heavy across my shoulders. He starts tracing lazy circles on my arm, and I melt into him. I can’t help it.
“I fully support naps. This is Liam’s favorite room. He built this custom LED lighting system that syncs up with the sound. If it’s cool with you, I’m not going to turn it on right now.”
I nod. How can something feel safe and dangerous at the same time?
***
I jolt upright as explosions and gunfire rip through the room. I don’t recognize where I am for a second. The chaos is just on the TV. I take tiny breaths and hope my heart doesn’t explode too.
I look over my shoulder. We did nap. Beckett is snoozing with a smile on his face. His long legs are twisted up in the blanket. The bruises under his eyes are fading to that ugly yellow you can’t cover with any amount of makeup. Even the scrapes on his knuckles look better.
Beckett’s cinnamon scent is everywhere. But it’s not sweet like the cinnamon rolls we sell at the diner. It’s grown-up and real, not like candles and room sprays.
I slip off the couch and tug the blanket up around Beckett’s shoulders. I really shouldn’t sneak around, not in someone else’s house, and Liam and Pierce are probably here somewhere. But my mouth is so dry it hurts.
The stairs creak under me as I climb. They aren’t a straight shot. There’s a landing, then a turn about halfway up.
“Oh!” The sound escapes me as I hit the last part of the stairs. Liam is sitting on the very top step, elbows braced on his knees, his head in his hands.
He takes a breath and looks up, and his eyes are drowning in hurt and worry.
“You scared me,” I say, my heart thundering in my own throat.
He scans me head to toe and back again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lurk.”
“Were you… spying on us?” I try to make it sound light, but my voice wobbles.
He holds my gaze, evaluating. Then he sighs. “No, I’m just trying not to hover. Beckett’s hurt, and he’s not taking it seriously. And I didn’t want to…” He gestures at the air, frustrated. “Well, he’s… Head injuries are pretty serious. And I can’t not… Well, you know.”
I nod like I understand. Maybe I do. Maybe if I had someone like Beckett in my life, I’d hover and worry too.
“Can I get you water or something?” he asks, changing the subject.
