Something reckless stirs in my chest. Want and need and seven years of trying not to feel either. My hand comes up almost of its own accord, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The slight stubble there, rough against my fingertips.
His breath hitches at the contact, his chest stuttering against mine.
Heat flares in my core.
His eyes darken instantly, pupils dilating, and I watch him war with himself—desire and restraint battling across his features in a way that makes my stomach clench.
I close the distance slowly, giving him time to pull away, my eyes dropping to his mouth. He stays perfectly still, every muscle tense, water streaming over both of us.
His hand tightens on my waist, fingers pressing into my skin through the wet lace of my bra, and the tremor in his grip—the effort it's taking him not to close this gap himself—makes my pulse spike.
Our lips are inches apart.
I see the exact moment he makes his decision—his jaw clenches, his eyes close briefly like he's gathering strength.
He pulls back gently, his hand coming up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating tenderness.
"Not like this," he says, and his voice is rough, strained, likeevery word costs him. "Not when you're hurting. Not when you've been drinking. Not when you might regret it tomorrow."
"I wouldn't regret it," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know he's right to stop this.
"Maybe not," he says softly, his thumb still tracing patterns on my face like he can't quite make himself stop touching me. "But I would. I'd regret taking advantage when you're vulnerable. I'd regret not waiting until you're sure."
His hand is still on my face, and the tenderness of it—the gentleness despite the clear want in his eyes—makes my eyes burn with tears that have nothing to do with Wes.
I lean into his hand, let myself take comfort in his touch even if I can't have more.
"Can you stay? Just until I fall asleep?"
"Yeah, Len," he says without hesitation. "I'll stay as long as you need."
He helps me out of the shower with hands that are careful and respectful, never straying, never taking advantage despite the fact that I'm in my underwear and we're both soaking wet.
He wraps me in a towel and waits outside while I change into sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and shorts.
When I open the bathroom door, he's gone.
My stomach drops.
The room is empty.
He left.
"Nate?" I call out, voice smaller than I intend.
No answer.
Oh god.
Shame floods through me—hot and immediate and suffocating.
I crossed a line.
I got drunk and fell apart and made him take care of me and now he's retreating because I've made everything weird and uncomfortable and he probably thinks I'm a disaster and?—
The door opens.
And there he is.
