But it was too late. The ringing stopped.
The phone was already pressed to my ear when his voice came through — deep, rough around the edges, and entirely too sober for the chaos around me.
“James? You okay?”
I froze. Oh no.
My brain, of course, decided to do the dumbest possible thing. “Why did you have sex with me in my dream?”
There was a pause long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat — and Naomi snorting into her cocktail beside me.
“…What?” Beckett finally said. His voice had dropped, caught somewhere between alarmed and disbelieving.
I waved my free hand like that would somehow fix it. “You were bossy,” I explained, words spilling out before I could stop them. “But nice-bossy. And then you—wait.” I blinked, squinting like the thought might steady itself. “I’m not supposed to tell you that part.”
Across the table, Naomi was doubled over, tears in her eyes. “You didn’t!” she mouthed.
I absolutely had.
Beckett sounded like he’d forgotten how to form sentences. “Ellery, are you?—”
“I’m fine!” I interrupted, laughing too loud. “Perfectly fine. Maybe slightly tequila-flavored fine.”
There was more background noise — glasses clinking, music thumping from the bar’s speakers. Naomi shouted something about another round, and the crowd cheered like she’d declared a national holiday.
Beckett’s voice came through again, lower now, steady in a way that made me feel warm and dizzy all over. “You’re drunk.”
“Obviously,” I said brightly. “Oh—some guy’s asking me to dance.”
I heard him inhale sharply, like he was about to argue.
“James—”
“Relax,” I said, already standing, trying to balance my phone, my drink, and my dignity. “It’s N?—"
She was already pulling me toward the dance floor, laughing, our hands laced like we were seventeen again.
“Bye, dream villain,” I said, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. Then I hung up.
For a moment, I just stood there, heart racing, the phone still warm in my hand. Naomi tugged me forward, and I let her — but part of me stayed behind, caught in the echo of his voice.
The music swallowed me up, lights spinning gold across the floor, but the image in my head wouldn’t leave: Beckett, confused and concerned, saying my name like it meant something.
Why did you have sex with me in my dream?
Gosh. I was never living that down.
And somewhere between the bass and the tequila, my heart whispered the truth I didn’t want to hear.
No, Beckett. I wasn't okay. Not even close.
Chapter 18
Beckett
I sat at my kitchen counter long after the call ended, phone still warm in my hand, the echo of her voice replaying like a song I shouldn’t know the words to. The apartment was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs and made every thought louder.
Did she really just say I slept with her? In her dream?
