Chapter Six
THE THIRD TIME ISN’T A MISTAKE
Jules
I’m not expecting him. That’s the only reason I swing the door open without checking the peephole first. It’s late—not the rowdy midnight of a weekend, especially here in Sleighbell Springs—but that hollow, heavy kind of late where the street is quiet enough to hear the porch light humming against the wood.
I’m halfway through a glass of water, barefoot and still damp from a shower, trying to convince my racing brain that I’m actually winding down for the night.
Then comes the knock.
It isn't the heavy-handed thud of a drunk neighbor or the frantic rap of a delivery guy. It’s two hits—soft, controlled, and intentional.
Then nothing. I set the glass on the counter, that stupid, hopeful ache already climbing up my throat like I’m bracing for a hit I’ve been asking for all day.
I don't even try to talk myself out of it; I just open the door.
And there he is.
Wes stands on my porch like he’s been dropped there by a storm he hasn't quite survived. He’s a study in shadows: black hoodie, dark jeans, hands shoved so deep into his pockets it looks like he’s trying to hold himself together by the seams. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, but the second they lock onto mine, the rest of the world just falls away.
I forget how to breathe for a beat. He doesn't say my name, doesn't offer an excuse. He just looks at me with the expression of a man standing on a ledge, realizing he’s already decided to jump.
My throat goes tight. I should say something smart, a bit of the usual flirty friction to ease the pressure—but the silence is too thick to cut through.
I just step back, pulling the door wider to let him in.
He crosses the threshold like it’s costing him something vital.
He moves slowly and carefully, not glancing at the photos on the walls or the mess on the coffee table.
He moves like a man who isn't sure he’s allowed to take up space, or maybe like he isn’t sure he deserves to.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the tension in the room turns sharp enough to draw blood.
I watch his hands. He keeps them buried in that hoodie, and for a second, I wonder if he’s afraid of what they’d do if he let them go.
"You... okay?" I finally manage. It’s a moron's question. He clearly isn't.
Wes lets out a long, ragged exhale. "No."
The honesty of it is blunt and unadorned—it hits me harder than any of our usual back-and-forth ever could.
My chest loosens a fraction, not because I want him to be hurting, but because for once, he isn't pretending.
He shifts his weight, eyes dropping to the floor for a split second before snapping back to mine.
"I shouldn’t be here," he rasps.
"Okay," I whisper. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand.
His jaw tightens, his throat working as he swallows whatever pride he has left. "You were right, Jules. I don't get to call it a mistake when I'm the one who started it."
The words land with a physical weight. There’s no drama in his voice, no poetic flair—just Wes, giving me the blunt truth with the edges still sharp. Something in my chest twists, a mix of triumph and an ache I can't name.
He takes a step forward. It isn't a rush or a charge; he’s just closing the space between us, testing to see if the ground will hold his weight.
"I don't... do this," he says, his voice dropping an octave.
"Okay," I answer, my own voice barely a breath.
His eyes flicker, surprised by the lack of argument. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with it. With you. With the way it felt."
My pulse kicks against my ribs. I keep my hands at my sides, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to reach out and anchor him. "Then don’t do anything with it. Just be here."
His throat works again. "That’s the problem."
"What’s the problem, Wes?" I tilt my head, watching the way he looks at me like he’s deciding whether to lie or not.
He doesn't.
"I came here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you," he says, quiet but steady. "And I hate that."
I let out a slow, careful breath. "You don’t have to hate it."
His mouth tightens into a hard line. "Feels like I should."
And there it is. The fear. It isn’t a fear of me, or even the sex; it’s a fear of what wanting someone might actually cost him. I take a step closer, moving into his heat. "I’m not here to take anything from you, Wes."
His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second before he catches himself. I catch it, too. I give him a small, soft smile, the kind that usually makes him roll his eyes, but tonight he just looks wrecked. "You don’t have to run tonight."
"I'm not running," he says automatically, though we both hear the lie in it.
I lift a brow, letting the silence challenge him. His shoulders finally drop a fraction, the fight bleeding out of him. "I'm trying not to."
That one is real. I can see him searching my face for the catch—the tease, the trap, the punchline. But I'm not playing. He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that I can smell him: coffee, clean soap, and that faint, spicy cinnamon note that seems to follow him home from The Brew House.
His hands finally slide out of his pockets, but they stay hovering at his sides, unsure of the rules. I keep my voice as calm as I can. "You sure?"
His eyes lift to mine, dark and intense. "No." Honest again. Then, quieter: "But I’m here."
Something in me softens so hard it almost hurts. I nod. "Then come here."
His breath shudders out of him as he finally steps in.
It isn't fast; it’s intentional. His hand slides up from my wrist to my forearm, his fingers warm and callused.
He cups my elbow like I’m something fragile he might accidentally break.
I lift my hands slowly, resting my palms against his chest, and feel him freeze.
His body locks up, as if he isn't used to being touched without an agenda.
I don't push. I just let my hands stay there, feeling his heartbeat thrumming against my skin. It’s pounding.
"You don’t have to be nice to me," he mutters, his jaw flexing.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
He looks away for a second, the truth tasting bitter. "Because I’m not. Not when it matters."
My chest tightens. I slide my hands up his chest, over the line of his shoulders, and settle them at the back of his neck. I don't pull him down yet; I just hold him there, steadying him. "Wes. You’re here. That's what matters."
His throat works, his eyes going glassy for a heartbeat, and it hits me like a punch just how close he is to losing his grip. I keep my voice low. "Are you here to talk, or are you here to do what you didn't let yourself do last time?"
His gaze flicks to my mouth and stays there. He doesn't bother pretending this time. "I don't know," he admits.
"We can start slow," I whisper.
His breath hitches. "I don't do slow."
I let a small smile touch my mouth. "You do with me."
He goes still, looking like he hates the fact that I’m right. Then he leans in, not all the way, just close enough that his breath brushes my lips. I feel him hesitate on the edge, and I don't move. I don't meet him halfway. I let him make the choice.
His eyes close, and then he kisses me.
It isn't a crash or a desperate collision. It’s a slow, agonizing press of his mouth to mine, like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted without having to earn it. My chest squeezes in the best way possible as I kiss him back, giving him the room he needs.
His hands slide to my waist, not gripping yet, just holding on.
As the kiss deepens, I feel the shift; it’s the exact moment he stops trying to control the situation and just lets it happen.
My fingers curl into his hair, and he makes a sound low in his throat, a small, involuntary broken noise that slips out before he can stop it.
Wes pulls me in until we’re chest to chest, his hands sliding from my waist to my hips and then around my lower back. I’m already hard, the pressure building between us, but I keep the pace slow. I keep it grounded. He isn't here for a quick fix tonight.
He breaks away, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. "I can't do the back and forth, Jules."
"Then don't."
His eyes snap open, dark and locked on mine. "If I do this, I'm doing it."
My pulse stutters. I nod. He searches my face one last time. "You're sure?"
I smile, soft and certain. "I'm not the one who's afraid, Wes."
His jaw ticks. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't call me out like that," he mutters, though he doesn't pull away.
I shrug slightly. "Then prove me wrong."
His nostrils flare, and then his mouth is on mine again, harder this time.
It isn't rough, but it is hungry. He’s heard the dare and decided he’s done playing small.
His hands slide under my shirt, his palms flat and searing against my skin, making me shiver.
He groans into my mouth, a deep, real sound that vibrates through me.
I feel him everywhere, his heat, his tension, the slow unraveling of his restraint.
My body reacts fast, my cock straining against my sweatpants with a dull ache now.
Wes’s hands move up my ribs, his thumbs brushing over my nipples through the thin fabric of my shirt. I make a quiet, strangled sound.
His eyes flash. "Sensitive." The word is low and possessive, and it kills me.
"Yeah," I swallow.
A shadow of a smirk touches his mouth, but there’s something softer underneath it. He leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth. "Good."
I grip his hoodie, my fingers digging into the fabric. "Wes..."
He freezes, his eyes snapping up. "What?"
"I want you."
His jaw clenches. And then, like it costs him his last bit of armor, he whispers, "I know. I've been thinking about it since the first time I touched you."