Just a reprieve from the suffocating loneliness of Xavier’s empty bed, from the cold sheets that should be warm with his body heat.
And who am I to reject a girl just looking for some body heat.
I can give her that, right?
I can control myself for one night and hold my best friend’s girl for her comfort and nothing more, right?
I am not the animal I think I am. Or at least I can curb the beast within me for a night. Besides, I can’t say no to her.
Not when she looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping her from going under, like I’m the last piece of driftwood in an ocean determined to swallow her whole.
Not when I know that if she asked for anything more—one word, one touch—I’d break apart in her tiny, lethal hands without a fight.
And God help me, not when I’m already carrying the weight of letting my best friend take a bullet just so I could have one chance to taste her.
To touch the girl we both wanted.
If Xavier never wakes up, the sickest part of me whispers that at least I’d make his sacrifice mean something.
At least I’d worship her the way he always wanted to. At least one of us would.
It’s what Xavier would have wanted for her—devotion, surrender, worship.
He should be grateful I’m willing to take up his duties while he’s on the table bleeding for the choices I made.
The thought makes something twist in my throat.
It makes me think of Zay, of how far I’ve already fallen, how deep the hook is set.
I am so fucking gone that I can feel myself nodding before the words even leave my mouth, already manipulating myself into agreeing, into obeying, into giving her whatever she asks.
“Alright,” I say, and her shoulders sag with relief so profound it’s almost painful to watch. “But you’re staying on your side of the bed.”
She nods quickly, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face before it disappears like smoke.
“Deal.”
I grab a pair of sweatpants from the dresser and pull them on, leaving the towel on the floor in a damp heap.
When I turn back, Valentina’s already crawled under the covers, the comforter pulled up to her chin.
She curls onto her side, making herself small, and hugs one of my pillows to her chest like it’s the only thing anchoring her to reality.
I slide in beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight, and keep a respectable distance.
The sheets are cool against my skin, not quite cold but not warm either, and I can feel the space between us like a tangible thing.
But the second I settle, propping my head on my arm and staring at the ceiling, she shifts closer.
Not touching, not quite, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body radiating across the gap, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral—jasmine, maybe—clinging to her skin and Xavier’s shirt.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice muffled by the pillow, barely audible over the sound of our breathing.
“Don’t mention it,” I say, my eyes tracing the patterns in the ceiling plaster, the way the early morning light is starting to creep through the blinds and paint everything in shades of gray and pale gold.
Within minutes, her breathing evens out, the tension draining from her body in stages.
I can feel it happening, the way her muscles relax one by one, her shoulders dropping, her grip on the pillow loosening.
