Then my body does something incredibly unhelpful. I close my eyes, just for a moment, so that I can try to will what I think is happening away. Though I know it won’t.Fuuuuuuuck.Morning wood. Hard. Insistent. Unmistakable.
My eyes open fully, and the reality of the situation lands all at once.
Hazel is on me.
Not just close—on me. Her head is tucked beneath my chin, her cheek pressed to my chest, her arm draped across my stomach in a loose, proprietary way that suggests her body decided sometime in the night this was where it belonged. One of her legs is thrown over mine, her thigh heavy and warm, anchoring me in place. Every rise and fall of her breathing shifts her against me in small, devastating ways. Her tiny body against my massive one is a stark contrast to just how fragile all of this is.
I don’t move; I don’t even swallow. I feel it all, every point where our bodies are connected, and it’s like every nerve lights up at once. Awareness crashes through me like a wave. The contrast is brutal: her soft, trusting weight against me and the sharp, humiliating reality of my body’s response to it. This is not desire in the abstract. This is physical, undeniable, and pressed so painfully close to a line I cannot afford to cross.
I stare at the ceiling, jaw clenched so hard it aches, trying to take stock without panicking. She is asleep, fully and deeply, by the even rhythm of her breathing and the way her fingers curl slightly into my shirt when she exhales. There is no tension in her body, no hesitation. Whatever happened in the night, she moved here unconsciously, guided by comfort, not intention.
Does that make it worse? Or is this somehow deep down something that I wanted? If she were awake, if this were deliberate, at least there would be rules. Consent. Conversation. Boundaries spoken out loud. But this—this is my responsibility alone. I have to keep her safe. I have to keep her trust intact. To not let my body betray either of us. She didn’t ask for this, nor did she say this was okay, but it’s in this moment I become painfully aware of how little separates us. How one small shift of her hips would be catastrophic. How if she wakes like this, tangled up with me, she will feel everything.
Zack, I trust you.
The thought sends a spike of panic through my chest.What if she thought I was someone else?I never saw any talk of any significant others anywhere, so I don’t think that it is something I need to be worried about. Shaking my head, I force myself to focus on getting my shit under control. On slowing my breathing until each inhale and exhale are measured and quiet. I catalog neutral details like I always do when things threaten to spiral: the faint hum of the heater, the gray morning light leaking in around the curtains, the distant sound of a truck passing somewhere outside. Things that are mundane and not this goddess of a woman that’s using me as something to cuddle.
I don’t need this. I can’t even think about wanting this. I feel the blood physically pumping through my dick.
Hazel stirs.
My entire body locks down harder than before.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat—half sigh, half murmur—and nestles closer, her arm tightening briefly around my waist as if making sure I am still there. Her forehead brushes my collarbone, and the intimacy of that simple movement nearly undoes me. My body reacts instantly, traitorous and sharp, and I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from sucking in a breath and making any more movements that could possibly wake her from this peaceful sleep she so desperately needs.
This is not how I want her to wake up. This is not how I want to feel about her—not like this, feeling so raw and unfiltered, and completely out of my control. I wanted to give her space andtime.Time.Something gradual and careful, not this collision of instinct and trust where our joining seeming so inevitable. I gently run my hand over the back of her hair, just over the top of it where I can reach through just my touch alone, giving her the sense of feeling safe, even just for a moment.
I feel her breathing change before she speaks. She lays there, still, as if trying to figure out what to say. “You petting me, Gramps?” I can hear the smile in her voice.
And as if a bucket of cold water is splashed over me, the realization of what I’ve done crashes into me. “I—I…” There’s truly no good way of explaining away what I’ve done. “Yes.”
She’s silent for a moment too long, but it's what follows that shakes me to my core. “Thank you.” It’s raw and real, and I realize it’s probably a feeling she doesn’t get to feel often.
“We should get going,” I say, promptly ending the comfortable mood that has settled over the two of us.
I watch as she methodically cleans up the room, packs, and gets ready to go in a matter of minutes.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MY MOON MY MAN
HAZEL
The farther we get from the hotel, the more convinced I become that Zack has decided to personally duel the steering wheel, because he is gripping it like it insulted his family lineage and owes him an apology. The rain turns the highway into a stretch of shining gray ribbon, the sky low and heavy like it’s pressing down on us. The silence inside the car is thick enough I could probably slice it with a credit card. I tuck my legs up beneath me, twist in my seat to look at him, and smile brightly, because if there’s one thing I refuse to do today, it’s let the mood win.
“So,” I announce cheerfully, stretching the word out just to see if it makes him flinch. “On a scale from one to ten, how much do you regret agreeing to bring me on this very illegal, very suspicious, definitely-not-a-road-trip adventure?”
“This is not a road trip,” he says immediately, his eyes fixed on the road like it might confess something under pressure.
I grin wider. “Wow. Strong denial. I give it twenty more miles before you start asking what snacks we have.”
“I already know what snacks we have,” he mutters.
“Oh,” I say, delighted. “So youwerelistening when I packed. Character growth. I love to see it.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I take that tiny victory like a trophy. I lean my head back against the seat, watching the trees blur past the window, their bare branches clawing at the sky like they’re auditioning to be ominous. Normally, that sort of thing would spark a spiral, but today I choose joy. Or at least the loud, sarcastic version of it that I’m very good at performing.
Zack’s jaw flexes, unclenches, then tightens again, and I watch it with interest. “You know,” I add, casually, “most people turn on music for long drives. Or podcasts. Or anything that isn’t the auditory equivalent of brooding.”
