This I could do.
So I stayed.
Her hand warm in mine.
Her breathing slow and even.
I closed my eyes. Just for a second, I told myself. Just to rest them.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The couch springs creaked every time she shifted. The building settled around us with those late-night sounds old arenas make—metal contracting, pipes groaning, ice machines cycling down.
I should've been uncomfortable. Couch was hard. My back pressed against cold cinderblock. Legs cramping from sitting too long in one position.
But her hand was still in mine.
Warm. Small. Callused from years of gripping a stick.
I breathed in. Slow. Deep.
She smelled like ice and sweat and that cheap floral shampoo all the girls seemed to use in the locker room. Something clean and young and completely at odds with the weight she carried.
My thumb moved without permission. Traced the ridge of her knuckles. The thin scar across her index finger she'd gotten blocking a shot in practice two weeks ago.
She'd barely flinched. Just wrapped it and kept playing.
Stubborn. Tough. Too damn good for this broken-down mess of a man holding her hand in the dark.
Her breathing evened out completely. Deep and rhythmic. Safe.
That word kept circling back.
Safe.
When was the last time I'd made anyone feel that way?
My chest tightened. I tried to swallow past it. Failed.
She shifted again. Her fingers tightened around mine, like even asleep she was afraid I'd disappear.
I wouldn't.
Not tonight.
Maybe not ever, if she'd let me stay.
The thought should've terrified me.
It didn't.
My head tipped back against the wall. Eyes still closed. Her scent wrapping around me like a promise I had no right to make.
The exhaustion I'd been fighting for weeks finally caught up.
Pulled me under.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, I fell asleep holding the one thing I couldn't keep.
Chapter 23
