Rhett's expression softens. "That's sweet. My foster dad, Frank, used to cry at the end of Old Yeller. Same excuse, allergies. We all knew better."
The kettle whistles, and I pour hot water over tea bags in two mugs. I bring them back to the living room, handing one to Rhett. But instead of settling into the armchair, I look at the couch. At him sitting there alone, still shaken from the nightmare.
"Scoot over," I say.
He blinks. "What?"
"You're not going to sleep. I'm not going to sleep. We might as well be comfortable." I gesture for him to move.
He shifts to one side of the couch, and I settle beside him, pulling my knees up to my chest. The oversized t-shirt I'm wearing, the one that barely reaches mid-thigh when I'm standing, stretches to cover my legs when I curl up like this. It's only then that I realize I'm basically sitting next to him in my underwear and nothing else, but now it's too late to back out without making it weird.
"Is this okay?" I ask, suddenly uncertain.
"Yeah," he says, his voice a little rough. "It's okay."
I lean my head onto his shoulder, half-expecting him to tense up or pull away. Instead, he shifts slightly, wrapping his arm around me. His warmth seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, somehow exactly what I need right now. His breathing gradually slows, evening out, and I can feel some of the tension leaving his body.
"Thank you," he says. "For not making me feel like shit about this."
"You don't have to thank me," I say. "This is what people do. They show up for each other."
"Not everyone."
"Well, I'm not everyone." I adjust slightly, getting more comfortable against his side. "And you showed up for me when I had nowhere else to go. So, we're even."
He's quiet for a moment, then: "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"That scar." He gestures vaguely toward his own eyebrow. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I'm curious."
I touch the scar, running my finger along the thin white line. "Kitchen knife. I was six. My dad told me not to play with it, and of course, I didn't listen. Slipped and cut myself pretty badly. He rushed me to the hospital, stayed with me the whole time while they stitched me up. He felt so guilty, like it was his fault for leaving the knife where I could reach it."
"But it wasn't his fault."
"No. It was mine for being a stubborn kid who didn't listen. But he never made me feel bad about it. Just held my hand while they stitched me up and told me I was the bravest girl he'd ever met." My throat tightens. "I kept the knife. It's in my duffel bag.I know that's weird, but it's like... It's a reminder of him. Of how much he loved me."
"That's not weird," Rhett says. "I kept Frank's old pocket watch. Can't bring myself to wear it, but I can't get rid of it either."
"Then we're both sentimental idiots."
"Sounds about right."
Chapter 7 - Rhett
"Sounds about right," I say, and despite the lingering adrenaline from the nightmare, I feel something warm settling in my chest.
This is how you build something real. Not through grand gestures or perfectly planned dates, but through moments like this—sitting together in the middle of the night, sharing pieces of yourself you usually keep hidden. Claire's telling me about her father and his terrible westerns, about the scar that reminds her she was loved. And I'm telling her about Frank's pocket watch gathering dust in my drawer because I can't bear to wear it but can't let it go either.
We're opening up to each other. Actually connecting.
And I'm so fucking happy that this is working, that she's here, that maybe this insane plan might actually lead to something real.
Except my brain is divided right now. Split between two very different tracks.
One part of me is focused on what Claire's saying, genuinely listening, wanting to know every detail about her life. The other part, the part I'm desperately trying to ignore, is aware of her body pressed against my side.
Because Claire is essentially wearing nothing.
