Chapter 17
Levi
It was too early to be up, but I didn’t go back to sleep.
After I climbed out of her bed and slid through the narrow gap between our windows into mine, there hadn’t been any real chance of that.
The space between our trailers was barely a foot wide, close enough that when I pushed my window up, I could feel the faint brush of her curtain against my knuckles.
Close enough that our beds sat almost parallel to each other, separated only by air and thin siding.
I’d crossed from her mattress to mine in one small movement. It should have felt reckless. It hadn’t.
Her scent still clung to me—clean soap, a faint floral, and vanilla, the warmth of her skin against mine.
I could still feel the exact spot where her face had pressed to my chest, the way her breath had come out in gasps, then steadied, matching mine.
The way she’d whispered, “Stay.” The way her fingers had curled into mine, as if she were afraid I’d disappear if she let go.
My hand went to my heart without thinking.
And then there was the kiss. God. That small, stolen press of her mouth to mine.
It had happened so fast—barely more than a breath shared between us—but it had burned through every careful wall I’d ever built around what I felt for her.
Soft lips, tentative at first, then parting just enough to let me taste her.
The way her fingers had tightened on my bare shoulder, nails grazing skin like she needed something to hold on to.
The quiet hitch in her throat when I kissed her back, gentle but sure.
Then Matt showed up and ruined it.
I dragged a hand down my face, exhaling hard. My pulse had yet to settle. It thrummed low and steady now—it was want. Raw, patient, insistent want.
I needed more. Not just another interrupted moment in the half-light of dawn.
I wanted it slow. I wanted to take my time learning every inch of her mouth, to feel her hands slide into my hair and pull me closer like she couldn’t get enough.
I wanted to kiss her until her breathing turned ragged again, but not from fear this time.
From us. I wanted to taste the little sigh she’d make when I finally let my hands wander, when I pressed her back against the mattress and felt her arch into me the way she had this morning, instinctively, like her body already knew what her head was still catching up to.
I wanted to hear her say my name against my lips—not in a whisper of panic, but in that soft, wrecked voice she used when she let herself be vulnerable.
I wanted to feel her legs wrap around me, her fingers digging into my back, her heart hammering against mine the way it had when she’d finally let herself rest.
I wanted all of it.
And I wanted it with her.
Not because the timing was perfect. Not because the danger had pushed us together. But because it had always been her. Through every almost, every missed chance, every year, I told myself she was better off without me complicating things. It had always been Becca.
I glanced toward the cracked window. Her curtain was still, but I could picture her on the other side—maybe wrapped in that oversized sweatshirt now, hair messy, cheeks still flushed from whatever Matt had said to make her roll her eyes at him.
I could picture the way she’d look if I climbed back through right now, if I crossed that foot of space again and kissed her properly, no interruptions, no holding back.
Soon, I told myself.
Not today. Not with her brother still coming around and cameras about to go up. But soon. Because that kiss—this morning’s small, electric promise—had cracked something open between us. And I wasn’t going back to pretending it hadn’t happened.
I wasn’t going back to almosts. I wanted more. And when the moment came, I was going to take it.
I stood, moving quietly so the mattress wouldn’t creak.
The coffee maker clicked on with a soft hum, the smell blooming slowly in the small space.
I leaned one shoulder against the narrow wall beside the window and listened.
Her trailer was quiet now. Matt’s voice had carried earlier, and I’d caught enough to know it wasn’t nothing.
I hadn’t meant to overhear, but when your bedroom windows are practically touching, privacy is more theoretical than real.
“…deleted the only copy,” she’d said.
That had stopped me cold.
I poured coffee into my mug and stood at the counter, staring at the thin strip of light between our windows.
I could see the edge of her pillow from where I stood.
The corner of her blanket. If she got back into bed, I’d know.
I should close my window and pull the curtains tight.
But I didn’t. That proximity felt like a tease—near but not invited.
Last night, that distance had disappeared. She’d asked me to stay.
Not because Matt told me to keep an eye on her. Not because I’d heard something in her voice and reacted.
She’d chosen me. I let that settle carefully. It would have been easy to chalk it up to fear. Adrenaline. A bad dream. But she hadn’t flinched when I’d touched her face. She hadn’t slid back when I’d leaned in. She’d tilted her chin up. That hadn’t been panic. That was something else.
And the part of me that had spent years convincing myself I could live with just friendship felt raw and exposed now.
Because I didn’t want just friendship anymore.
I wanted her to know she could fall apart in my arms and I wouldn’t look away.
I wanted her to know she could ask me to stay—not because she was scared, but because she wanted me there.
I wanted her to stop trying to handle everything alone.
I’d spent so long being the steady one, the one who showed up without asking for anything back, that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to want something this badly and be terrified of breaking it by reaching too hard.
Matt’s truck engine started a few minutes later, gravel crunching as he pulled away. I didn’t move right away. I gave her a second. Let the air shift. Let the day begin on her terms.
The morning light crept higher, catching the edge of the window frame and the line of space between our rooms. It would take one small movement to cross it again.
I wasn’t going to. Not yet. But I wasn’t going to pretend that foot of air didn’t mean something anymore.
And whatever was going on with her laptop—whatever file had been deleted—wasn’t small. I didn’t have the full picture, but I had enough to know it was serious.
I waited until Matt’s truck turned onto the main road before I moved back toward the window.
The air drifting through the gap between our trailers carried the smell of coffee and damp gravel. Morning in Sweetbriar always felt deceptively harmless—cool light settling over everything like a clean slate, as if whatever had happened in the dark belonged to a different version of the world.
I pushed my curtain back slightly. Her window was still open.
For a second, I just stood there, looking at the narrow space between us. It would’ve been easier to close it. To create distance again. To pretend last night had been about adrenaline and instinct and nothing more.
Instead, I leaned closer.
She appeared a second later, as if she’d felt it too. Like, there was a thread stretched between our trailers, and we were both holding on without admitting it.
Her hair was pulled back, loose strands catching the light. She looked steadier than she had in the middle of the night. Less pale. But there was still something tight at the corners of her eyes that hadn’t been there a month ago.
“You’re still up,” she said, resting her forearms on the sill.
“Couldn’t go back to sleep.” I studied her face in the early light, the tiredness she was doing her best to carry quietly. Her eyes flicked toward the laptop sitting on her counter before coming back to me—subtle, quick, but I saw it. “Want to talk?” I asked, keeping my tone easy.
She nodded a little too quickly. “Yeah. But I have to work, so I don’t have long.”
I leaned one shoulder against the window frame and let my eyes settle on her. “About last night,” I started, then stopped, choosing the words carefully. “I meant what I said.”
Her brow lifted faintly. “About?”
“Showing up for you. Whenever you need me. All of it.” I let the words sit there without rushing past them, because I wanted her to hear them properly, not just in passing.
Something soft moved under the surface of her expression. “I know,” she said, and the way she said it told me she did—that she’d sat with it, turned it over, and hadn’t quite known what to do with it. Which was fine. I wasn’t asking her to do anything with it yet.
I nodded once, not trusting myself to layer more onto it. If I started unpacking the kiss right now, in the clear light of morning, with half an hour between her and her shift, I’d either say too much or say the wrong thing entirely.
“When do you leave?” I asked instead.
“Half an hour.” She lifted her coffee cup to her lips. “You?”
“Shift in an hour.” The practical world intruding, the way it always did.
Shifts, schedules, the ordinary machinery of a day that didn’t particularly care what had passed between two people the night before.
For a second, it almost felt normal—morning light, coffee, gravel crunching somewhere down the drive. But I couldn’t let it go. Not entirely.
“Becca.” She looked up. “Maybe you should stay home and rest.”
“I’m fine,” she said, and it didn’t come out defensive—just quiet and certain, like she’d already had this conversation with herself and reached a conclusion.
“You had a panic attack last night,” I reminded her gently. “And I heard enough this morning to know something’s going on that you haven’t told me yet.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze dropping briefly before coming back to mine. “It’s not what you think.”