His jaw works.“Control is how I survive.”
“Yeah,” I say softly.“And she’s going to need more than survival.She’s going to need the two of us—and you know what, fucker, I need you too.I’m done pretending that you didn’t fucking hurt me.”
The silence that follows is thick with tension that has nothing to do with him trying to figure out how to get out.More like I hit hard where it hurts and I hope it stings.
Vesper stirs then, a soft sound in her sleep, and both of us go still.Monty’s gaze snaps to her face, mine does too, like we’re the same kind of idiot in different packaging.
She doesn’t wake.She just shifts, pulling the throw blanket higher, curling tighter into the couch like she’s cold.
Monty stands abruptly and crosses the room.He doesn’t hesitate.He kneels by the couch and tucks the blanket around her with careful hands—gentle, precise, like he’s handling something precious.
Vesper’s mouth moves like she’s about to complain even in her sleep.
Monty leans closer and murmurs, so quiet I barely hear it, “Sleep, Ves.”
He looks over at me, eyes hard again like he remembers I’m there.
“We shouldn’t be discussing that,” he snaps while still whispering.“You’re going to wake her up.”
“As if I’d be that stupid,” I whisper back.
He holds my gaze for another beat—too long, too loaded—then returns his attention to Vesper, staying there by the couch like a guard.
And I sit with my e-reader open to a chapter on emotional support, staring at the words like they’re written in another language.
Because I know what I want.
I know what Vesper deserves.
I just don’t know if Monty and I can stop hurting each other long enough to give it to her.
Or if we’re going to blow this up the way we always do—right when it starts to feel like it could last forever.
ChapterThirty-Two
Callaway
I’m the idiot who can take a slapshot to the ribs, grin for the cameras, and call it a good shift—when Vesper is around I turn into a man who can’t fucking leave.
I shouldn’t stay.
I know the list of reasons.I can recite it like a lineup: boundaries, common sense, the fact that Monty is in the next room and we’re all one bad choice away from detonating the fragile truce we’ve been duct-taping together since the check-up in Seattle.
But Vesper is standing at the edge of her bed, pulling pillows off it with grim determination like she’s preparing for war.
“No,” she says.“I’m not doing this again.I won’t let you sleep on the couch.You’re staying in my bed.”
“You don’t have to—” I start, because my reflex is still to give her space even when my body wants the opposite.
“I do,” she cuts in, and the look she gives me has teeth.“I’m pregnant.I’m exhausted.And according to your book, I’m hormonal.”She gives me a smug look.“That’s a dangerous combination, Cally.If I wake up tomorrow and have to watch you pretend you don’t have sciatica, I’m going to bite you.”
I blink.“You’re going to?—”
“Yes.”Her chin lifts.“Like a rabid raccoon.Now get in the bed.”
This is her defense system.Sarcasm.Threats.A bright smile taped over fear.Like humor is a lock on the door and if she keeps it bolted, nothing gets in.
Except her hands tremble when she places a pillow between us.Just a small shake.Barely there.Like her body is arguing with the act she’s putting on.
