Him staying the night is a big fucking deal. And it’s not with anyone; it’s with the boy I loved. The man I may still love. Theboy who broke my heart. The man who wrote me letters I never got.
Jett’s looking at me in a way that makes my stomach flip. His expression is serious, as if my invitation matters to him too. It feels like a shift in our relationship.
We move through the house together in this quiet, almost domestic way. It feels completely natural and surreal at the same time.
I lock the door while he switches off the television and the lamp. I flick on the small light under the microwave so the kitchen isn’t completely dark, and the soft yellow glow spills across the counters and floor, giving the perfect illumination for late-night bathroom visits.
It feels strangely intimate to have him in my space.
“Do you have an extra blanket for the couch?”
His question catches me off guard, and I’m hit with this ache in my chest. I don’t want him on my couch. I want him next to me.
“You can sleep in my bed.”
Jett freezes. “Wren…”
“I’m not making you sleep on the couch.”
He rakes his hand through his hair. “I don’t mind.”
I scratch my forearm, suddenly nervous. “I want you to...be next to me.”
The air between us feels thick. Charged.
I walk by him, grabbing his hand as I pass, and lead him up the stairs. With each step, my heart beats faster. I go to twist the knob on my lamp, but change my mind, allowing the moonlight to stream through my windows, covering the room in soft blues and silvers.
As I turn around, I find Jett already watching me.
“Are you sure about this?”
I nod easily. “So sure.”
With my reassurance, Jett reaches with one hand and grips the neck of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head. Why is it so hotwhen guys do that? As my eyes trail over him, I forget how to breathe for a second.
Life in the military and on the farm have carved him into something solid. And unfairly attractive. Black ink covers his torso and chest before spiraling down his arm. His broad shoulders, defined chest, and strong arms look like they could lift anything. Or protect anything.
Protect me.
I don’t have time to process that thought before he pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them until he’s standing there in black boxer briefs.
I shouldn’t stare, but my mind and eyes are not in sync. I’m captivated by the man in front of me. It’s Jett, but it’s not the same boy I used to know. He’s a man. A man who’s lived and fought. Worked and lost. Came back and now stands in my bedroom, looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
Before I can overthink, I’m moving. With each step, my pulse jumps.
Step.
Thump.
Step.
Thump.
Our lips collide, and it’s anything but gentle. It’s with a ferocity I never knew existed. This urge, need, desire to erase the space between us until we’re one.
We pour ourselves into each tantalizing tangle of our tongues.
It’s years of missed chances. Years of hurt and heartbreak. Wanting and not having. Unexplainable pain as we searched for our true identities away from each other. It’s silence. Letters. Memories. And what ifs.
