I wanted this.
Chapter 38
Reese
I’ve spentthe last half hour wandering the set processing the loss of my Diamond Essence campaign. These days, my emotions feel like waves. Sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming. Instead of texting Dante to come over so we can lose ourselves in our pattern of mutual distraction, I find myself drawn to his cabin.
I’m at his window now—yes, officially crossing into light stalking territory—watching him on his sofa. He’s got his headphones on, lips moving silently to what I know must be next week’s script revisions.
Something deep inside me aches watching him like this—so focused, so earnest. I love the way his hair falls into his eyes before he threads his fingers through it, how his entire face transforms when he smiles. And heavens, the things I once found insufferable—his cockiness and ego—I now see for what they are: a shield, hiding the soft, fierce, sexy, intelligent, funny man underneath.
I lift my fist to his door and knock.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Our knock.
“Look what the night dragged in,” he says softly, leaning against the doorframe. His sweats cling in all the right places, and his oversized sweatshirt looks like it could swallow me whole.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say. The words feel heavy with everything I’m not saying:I needed to see you. I needed to not be alone.
He opens the door wider, a gentle “Come here” making my heart flutter.
Inside, a Diptyque candle flickers—the Pekin one he knows I love. The scent of magnolia, sandalwood, tea. It’s so typically him, this love for the luxurious things in life, this need to make everything a little more special. I pretend to find it excessive, but really, I love how he turns ordinary moments into something worth remembering.
“What are you working on?” I ask, though I already know.
“Next week’s scenes. Gotta be prepared for our three scenes together.” His kiss is quick, tender, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is.
“Lucky us.”
“You know,” he says, “you probably can’t sleep because your bed is tragic.”
“Oh, really?”
He abandons his script on the couch, leading me to his bedroom, where his ridiculous king-sized bed dominates the space. He claims it’s because he’s tall, but I’m certain it’s because he sleeps like a starfish. Though I’ve never had the privilege of finding out.
The amber lighting makes everything feel dreamlike. The floorboards creak beneath my feet.
“Get in,” he says, pulling back the duvet. I slide between his sheets, which are soft as clouds.
The mattress dips under his weight, and I instinctively curl into him. His arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, his lipspressing a quiet kiss to the top of my head. He’s radiating like a furnace, and I melt into him.
We breathe in sync, his chest rising and falling against mine, as if he knows I don’t have the words yet and isn’t in any rush to hear them.
Four. Seven. Eight.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks softly.
“It’s…” I trace the tattoos on his forearm. “This industry can be so isolating. You’re constantly surrounded by people, but it’s like being behind glass. Everyone’s looking in, but no one’s really seeing you.” I pause, feeling silly. “Goodness, I sound ungrateful, don’t I? Poor little actress with her perfect life.”
“Hey,” he says, fingers finding my chin. “Your feelings aren’t less valid because other people might envy your life.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m playing a part even when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
“I get that,” he says. “But not with me?”
“No,” I whisper, surprised by how true it feels. “Not with you. You make everything feel real.”
