“Sadie—”
“Don’t.”My voice cracks. I shake my head quickly, looking away. “Please.”
Inside, we tiptoe up the stairs, trying to avoid the creaks that always sound louder at night. Every step feels slower, heavier,like the air is thickening around us. The house is eerily dark and quiet; everyone’s already settled in for the night. Landon’s crashing on the couch, too drunk to make the walk over to the bunkhouse, and I’m sure Lydia has already climbed into my bed and stolen my favorite pillow for herself.
We both stop when we reach my door. He’s so close I can feel the heat of him at my back. When I turn to face him, he’sright there.
The space between us feels charged, one spark away from igniting. My chest tightens, my skin prickles, and all I can think is how badly I want to sink into him and forget. Erase every awful thing Lane said and forget that this is only temporary.
Even if it’s just once.
His hand twitches at his side, like he wants to touch me but doesn’t trust himself to.
But he doesn’t kiss me. He doesn’t pick me up and carry me into my room and whisper sweet nothings into my ear as we both come. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to walk toward his own room.
“Wait. I—” My voice breaks. I try again, softer. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
My confession hangs there, naked and raw.
He turns back to me, something flickering in his eyes—want, restraint, regret all tousled together.
Then, slowly, he reaches up. His knuckles brush my cheek, feather light, before falling away. It’s the gentlest touch, and it still wrecks me.
He leans down, close enough that I can feel his breath against my temple. “Okay.”
Then he takes my hand in his, leading me down the hallway toward his bedroom. My heart is beating so hard it almost hurts.
He hesitates with his hand on the knob as he looks over to me. “Are you sure?”
I nod, though my throat feels tight.
Does he think I mean something else?
I just want him. His presence. To not be without him in a room where the distance would eat me alive.
He opens the door and the lingering scent of cedar, clean laundry, andhimhits me. It’s intoxicating.
I hover just inside the doorway, nerves prickling under my skin as I look around. It feels like trespassing—like I’ve stepped into a part of him no one else gets to see.
It’s darker than I expected. Cool and quiet, like him. A single lamp glows near the bed, casting soft golden light over the neatly made deep green duvet. He’s so put together, there’s even afucking throw pillow. A half-finished paperback book sits on the nightstand. He reads.
Order. Discipline. Control. The air hums with Wesley’s presence. Every detail is stamped with his touch—so unmistakably him.
And the longer I stand here, surrounded by everything that is him, the less I know if it’s nerves tightening in my chest—or something far more dangerous sparking low inside me.
He’s combing through a drawer like this is completely normal—me standing in his room. Then he pulls out a soft, oversized T-shirt and holds it out to me.
“Here,” he says simply. “You can sleep in this.”
My fingers brush his when I take it, and the touch burns hotter than it should.
I fully step into the room then, slowly closing the door behind me, and take the shirt. My heart is pounding a little obnoxiously over a simple shirt to sleep in.
He strips down to his briefs and the effect is catastrophic. How is he being so nonchalant? He tosses his dirty clothes into the hamper in the corner and I realize maybe I’m the one beingweird, still standing in the middle of his room gaping at his half-naked body, clutching the shirt he gave me to my chest.
“Um, I can’t sleep unless I brush my teeth,” I blurt.
He pauses, studying me. “Okay.”
