Chapter 27 Wes
TWENTY-SEVEN
WES
By the time the sky went dark enough to press against the windows, the house felt different.
Lighter. Or maybe that was just me.
My leg barely twinged as I moved around the kitchen, wallet and keys in one hand, the other braced on the counter more out of habit than necessity. Phantom pain that usually sat in the background like white noise had gone quiet, replaced by something else buzzing under my skin.
Every time my brain slipped, it went right back to last night.
Clara’s thighs trembling around my head.
Her fingers in my hair, tight and desperate as she rode my face.
The way her whole body had gone tight and then loose all at once when she came, my name broken open on her tongue.
The dazed, stunned little smile afterward when I’d gently wiped her down with a towel.
Lesson two, my ass. It was a highlight reel I had no business replaying as many times as I had today.
I’d gotten hard twice just thinking about it.
The weirdest part was what didn’t come after. No crash into shame. No mental replay of every worst-case scenario. Just that one simple, stunned thought circling like a hawk.
I made her feel that good.
Clara’s footsteps sounded behind me as she crossed to the counter, bare feet, loose T-shirt, tiny shorts that should have been illegal inside my house.
She popped open the fridge, grabbed the bowl of grapes, and used her hip to nudge the door shut.
When she turned toward me, she’d already shoved two grapes into her mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.
“Hi,” she managed around them, cheeks rounding, eyes going a little wide like she’d only just remembered exactly what my mouth had been doing the last time we were face-to-face like this.
Heat crawled up my neck. “Hey,” I said, and my voice came out low and dark.
She chewed quickly, hand cupped under her chin in case anything betrayed her. A blush rose in two pink flags on her cheeks, climbing toward her ears. It matched the one burning under my skin.
Her gaze flicked over me—the jeans, the hoodie, the keys in my hand. “Nerd Night?” she asked, like it was the most normal question in the world.
I huffed out a small laugh. “Yeah,” I said. “Figured I should remind them I’m not actually a ghost.”
Her mouth curved, soft and a little shy. “Tell Hayes I say hi,” she said. “And try not to let Brody bully you into a character death this time.”
“Unlikely,” I muttered. “He’s been trying to kill me since middle school. Dice just give him new ideas.”
She grinned around another grape, and something in my chest did an alarming, unfamiliar thing—lifted, instead of sinking.
We’d spent the whole day orbiting each other in this new, careful gravity—brushes in the hallway, shared coffee, a couple of “you good?” check-ins that carried about twelve more questions underneath.
No awkward apologies. No pretending last night hadn’t happened.
Just . . . awareness. More heat under the surface.
For the first time in too long, the idea of leaving the house didn’t feel like work. It felt like proof. That I wasn’t sliding back into the cave. That things could shift in both directions.
“Don’t wait up,” I said, twisting the cap off my water.
She tilted her head, eyes bright. “Liar,” she said lightly.
She wasn’t wrong. I was already planning to text her when the game inevitably went off the rails.
I pocketed my keys, leg steady as I crossed to the door. The familiar weight of my prosthetic felt . . . right tonight. Not like a warning label. Like a piece of me that had carried me through something hard and was still here.
The cold hit my face as I stepped onto the porch, breath fogging on the exhale. For once, the tightness in my chest had nothing to do with dread.
I locked the door behind me, glanced once at the warm rectangle of light where I knew she was still standing with that damn bowl of grapes, and headed for the truck.
The condoms were on the back wall under a flickering strip of fluorescent lights that made everything look slightly more tragic than it needed to.
I stood there, hands on my hips, staring at three shelves’ worth of latex like they were an exam I hadn’t studied for.
What the hell am I doing?
The answer arrived immediately, dry and unhelpful. You know exactly why you’re here, jackass.
My gaze drifted over the options. Ribbed. Ultra-thin. Ecologically responsible. Size variations that made my ego twitch in three different directions at once. Boxes of three, ten, twenty-four.
Realistic. Optimistic. Former me on a good weekend.
My mouth curved despite myself.
There was a weird, fizzy feeling under my ribs, like the first beer on an empty stomach. Picking up condoms again felt . . . dangerous. Stupid. Hopeful. Like the kind of errand a guy with a future ran, not the half-busted version of me who used to avoid his own reflection.
Grief slid in under the fizz, quick and sharp.
I picked up a box, thumb brushing over the edge. I hadn’t needed these since before the accident. Before hospital rooms and rehab and learning how to walk again one ugly step at a time. Before my sex life had been filed under “theoretical” instead of “probable reality.”
My thumb tapped the cardboard, rhythm speeding up with my pulse. I could see Clara in my mind without even trying—her knees bracketing my shoulders, taste and heat and the way she’d begged for me. The idea of being inside her instead of just in my own head made my cock stir behind my fly.
Yeah. This was happening.
I reached for a second box, debated, and settled on one.
Be real, man. Maybe aim for not humiliating yourself before you buy in bulk.
“Wes?”
The sound of my name sliced through the aisle so hard my soul did a full record scratch.
I whipped around.
Hayes stood at the end of the row, shoulders filling the space between two sad displays of beef jerky and lip gloss.
Work jeans, worn flannel, hair damp from a quick shower, a six-pack dangling from one hand and a bag of pretzels from the other.
Every inch of him screamed cursed small-town leading man, right down to the expression that was half amused, half tired.
“Yeah. Hey,” he muttered, giving the display a resigned pat.
As he stepped forward, his shoulder brushed a cardboard stand advertising some jerky sale. The whole thing leaned, wobbled, and then half collapsed behind him in a slow-motion slide of meat sticks.
My brain screamed. Hide the condoms, hide the condoms, for the love of all things, hide the fucking condoms.
My hand shot out sideways. I grabbed the first thing my fingers hit on the lower shelf and yanked it into view as I slid the condom box behind a stack of discount cold medicine.
I looked down.
Tampons.
Perfect.
I turned back, boxing out the rest of the shelf with my body like I was defending the lane in a fourth-quarter game.
He startled, swore under his breath, and righted the display with the air of a man who had absolutely expected that to happen.
Hayes’s eyes scanned the aisle, landing suspiciously on the array of condoms and lube over my shoulder. “What’s up?”
“Hey,” I said, half strangled, holding up the box between us. “Clara texted. Emergency run.”
Relief flashed in his face so fast it made my chest twist. “Dang,” he said, huffing out a laugh. “She’s already got you running errands? Thought she’d at least wait a couple of months before breaking you in.”
Buddy, you have absolutely no idea.
I snorted, trying to look like a man who regularly bought feminine hygiene products and absolutely not like a man who had just ditched condoms because his best friend had walked up. “Figured I’d help out,” I said.
His gaze flicked down to the box in my hand. His frown deepened. “She uses the purple ones,” he said, nodding toward a different shelf. “Same brand, different box. She once gave me a twenty-minute speech on why it matters.”
I stared at him. “You know your sister’s tampon preferences?”
“I have four sisters,” he said flatly. “I know more about cycles than most ob-gyns. Do her a favor and grab the other ones or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
My throat constricted. “Right,” I said, clearing it. “Wouldn’t want to screw that up.”
I turned back, shoved the wrong box back into its spot, and grabbed the one with the purple stripe he’d indicated.
My pulse thudded in my ears as I did my best to look like a man entirely focused on absorbency instead of trying to mentally map how fast I could circle back to the condom aisle before closing.
Hayes shifted the pretzels to his other hand and jerked his head toward the register. “You heading to Brody’s?”
“Of course,” I said. “Figured I’d roll some dice, let him accuse me of cheating, the usual.”
“Good.” He sounded like he meant it. “It’s good to get out of that house sometimes. Clara’s already worried enough.”
A huff of a laugh escaped me. “She told you that?”
“She tells me plenty.” Fondness softened his features. “Half of it is about how much of a pain in the ass you are.”
Warmth pricked along the inside of my ribs. “Keeps life exciting.”
We walked toward the front together, fluorescent hum overhead, the linoleum squeaking under our boots.
The place smelled like coffee that had been on too long and cheap aftershave.
A teenage cashier with a nose ring and earbuds glanced up when we approached, expression flat with the boredom of youth.
Hayes dumped his beer and pretzels on the counter. I added my very important box of definitely-for-Clara tampons. The kid beeped everything through without blinking.
We paid and stepped out into the cold, plastic bags crinkling in our hands. The air hit my face, clean and sharp, clearing away some of the static in my head.
“Seriously,” Hayes said as we crossed the cracked lot toward our trucks. “Thanks for doing stuff like this for her. She’ll act like you’re annoying, but . . .” He shrugged. “You know.”