Page 172 of The Wright Man

The word came out sharper than I meant. I saw his brow twitch slightly in surprise, and I softened. "Can you... stay?" I asked, the vulnerability in my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want to be alone right now."

Something shifted in his face. Not shock. Not hesitation. Just... a storm. A war behind his eyes. And I recognized it immediately.

Because it was the same one I was fighting.

"Please," I added, and I hated how small I sounded, how fragile. But the truth was, I was. Right now, I was barely holding myself together.

He nodded slowly. "Okay." and I let out a shaky breath.

He stepped aside, letting me climb into the bed. The sheets were soft. Clean. Smelled like him. Woodsy and warm, with a faint trace of laundry detergent and something darker—something deep.

He turned off the light, and for a moment, the darkness made the silence too loud.

I heard him ease onto the bed behind me, felt the dip of the mattress as his weight settled. But he didn't touch me. Just laid there, the sheets and blanket a barrier between us. Still. Close enough that I could feel his body heat, far enough that I could tell he was waiting on me.

I tossed. Turned. Fluffed the pillow. Turned again. Every part of me wanted to press back into him, feel his arms wrap around me like armor, like peace.

"Can you hold me?" I asked finally, my voice trembling more than I wanted it to.

He took a deep breath. Measured. Intentional. Eyes closed like he was bracing himself.

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Angel," he said.

It wasn't a rejection. It was a warning.

But I couldn't heed it. Not tonight. Not after everything.

I turned to face him. "I just want to feel okay again. I want to feel... safe."

He opened his eyes and looked at me. Not through me—at me. Then, slowly, he turned me around, slid toward me and pulled me into him.

His arms wrapped around me like I belonged there. Like I always had.

Our bodies fit together perfectly, even through the sheets, his grip on me firm and sure, the press of his chest against my back steady and grounding. I exhaled, melting into him like I'd been waiting to do it my whole life.

"You don't have to talk," he whispered into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp. "I just want you to rest."

I nodded, face buried in the crook of his elbow, lips grazing his forearm without meaning to. Every nerve in my body buzzed, every part of me alive and heavy at once. I tried to keep still. Tried not to shift too much. Tried not to press my hips into his, even though I wanted to.

We didn't speak. Didn't move. Just breathed each other in.

And still, I couldn't sleep. My mind wouldn't let me. The silence between us stretched like a safety net, and I knew I had to say something.

"He's cheating on me."

I felt his body tense immediately.

His grip on me tightened. His lips found the top of my head.

"I'm sorry, Ang."

"Not as sorry as I am," I muttered bitterly. I swallowed hard, my throat still sore. "She's pregnant. About six months, if I had to guess."

There was silence.

Then a low, clipped, "Are you fucking serious?"

I nodded into his chest. "As a heart attack." My voice cracked. "And that's not even the worst part."