Page 16 of No Good Fight

That damn near kills me.

“You can text Josh.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “And call me.”

She stares at me for a long second, and I know she hears more than I mean to give away.

Then she nods. “Okay.”

I leave before I make a bigger mess of things.

I make it to my truck and start the engine.

Her bedroom light stays on for twenty-three minutes while dawn slowly turns the sky gray behind the rooftops.

Then it finally goes dark.

She’s trying to sleep.

I should go home.

Instead, I settle deeper behind the wheel.

And I stay.

3

ALEX

By noon the next day, I’ve almost convinced myself I’m being dramatic.

Almost.

Which is, honestly, better than I expected considering I woke up three hours later than I should have wearing Ryder’s hoodie like some emotionally compromised raccoon who crawled into the nearest warm place and decided to make a home there.

Not my proudest moment.

Especially because the most unsettling part wasn’t that I fell asleep in his clothes.

It was that I slept.

Actually slept.

No waking up every twelve minutes because the refrigerator clicked on. No lying completely still while I listened for footsteps that didn’t exist. No checking the front door, then the bedroom window, then the front door again, because apparently my brain considers obsessive lock inspection a meaningful hobby.

I fell asleep wrapped in smoke, detergent, cedar, and Ryder, and I woke to sunlight leaking through the curtains like a normal person.

A rested normal person.

Which feels illegal.

The second I realize that, I yank the hoodie over my head so fast my hair tries to go with it.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, standing in the middle of my bedroom with my shirt twisted around my ribs and my heart doing something stupid over a piece of clothing.

It’s just a hoodie.

A navy-colored fire station hoodie with COOK stitched over the chest in white thread.

Just fabric, filled with warmth.