Chapter 24
Becca
“Welcome to Somebody Said in Sweetbriar. Some nights are too good to narrate. You just have to live inside of them for a while.”
Levi eased out of me slowly, being careful and gentle while both of us breathed hard in the quiet aftermath.
“Give me one second,” he murmured, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing my skin one last time.
His eyes met mine in the low lamplight, holding there for a long, unguarded heartbeat.
There was no mask in that look—just raw need, raw relief, raw fear that this might still slip away.
“Bathroom. I’ll be right back. Don’t… don’t go anywhere, okay?
” The plea slipped out quieter than the rest of his words, almost lost under the hum of the heater, but it landed heavy in my chest.
I nodded, throat closing around words I couldn’t find yet. “I’m not going anywhere,” I whispered back, the promise feeling bigger than the trailer, bigger than the night itself.
He disappeared down the short hall. The absence hit harder than it should have, even though I could still hear the water run, hear the toilet flush, still hear his footsteps returning softer, slower, like he was giving me time to breathe, to decide.
When he came back, he didn’t rush. He slid under the covers naked and unhurried, the lamplight catching the faint sheen of sweat on his chest, the red lines my nails had carved across his shoulders like quiet proof of how much I’d needed him.
He pulled me against him immediately—chest to chest, legs tangling, arms wrapping around me until there was no space left for doubt.
I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in—salt, sex, cedar, the faint metallic tang of fear-sweat that said he was just as terrified to lose this as I was.
His hand found the small of my back, thumb stroking slow, trembling arcs over bare skin, but the touch felt different now.
He was hesitant, almost reverent, like he was afraid one wrong move would make me pull away.
“How are you feeling?” he asked against my hair, voice so soft it cracked on the last syllable.
I nodded against his throat, but the motion turned into something smaller, shakier. My fingers curled into his skin over his heart, feeling it hammer too fast, too loud.
“I’m scared,” I admitted, the words barely a breath.
“I’m so scared this is the part where it stops feeling real.
Where I wake up tomorrow, and you’re gone, or I’m too much, or you realize I’m not worth the mess I come with.
” My voice broke on the last word, and tears slipped hot and silent down my cheeks, soaking into his collarbone.
“I’ve never let anyone be this close. Not even Travis.
Not after everything. And now you’re here, and I want you here with me so badly it hurts, but I keep waiting for the moment you see how broken the pieces are and decide you can’t carry them. ”
He went completely still—every muscle locking for a second—then his arms tightened around me until it almost hurt, like he was trying to hold every fractured part of me together with his body alone. His breath hitched against my temple.
“Becca,” he said, and my name sounded like it was torn out of him.
“I’m scared too.” The confession came out raw, unsteady.
“I’m terrified that if I hold you too tight, you’ll feel trapped again.
That if I’m too steady, you’ll think it’s control.
That one day you’ll look at me and see the same quiet cage Travis built, just painted different colors.
I’ve spent years watching you from a distance because getting closer meant risking that I’d become another person who hurt you.
And tonight—tonight I finally got to touch you, to be inside you, to hear you say my name like it meant something, and all I can think is—what if tomorrow you wake up and realize I’m not enough to make you feel safe? What if I’m just another almost?”
His voice cracked open on the last word. I felt the tremor run through him—the same tremor I’d felt in his hands earlier when he’d asked if I was sure, when he’d paused every few seconds to check my eyes, to make sure I wasn’t drifting somewhere he couldn’t follow.
I lifted my head, cupped his face with both hands. His eyes were wet, lashes clumped, the blue almost black in the dim light. No walls. No careful distance.
“I see you,” I whispered, thumbs brushing the damp skin under his eyes.
“All of you. The parts that are steady. The parts that are scared. The parts that waited years because you didn’t want to hurt me.
And I’m still here. I’m still choosing you.
Even when I’m shaking. Even when I’m sure I’ll ruin it somehow.
Because you make me want to try anyway.”
A small, broken sound escaped him—half sob, half laugh—and he pulled me down into a kiss that tasted like salt and relief and the kind of trust neither of us had ever fully believed we’d get to have.
It wasn’t hungry like before; it was slow, deep, trembling—a kiss that said I’m here and I’m staying, and I’m afraid too, but I’m not running.
When we pulled apart, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other’s air, he spoke against my lips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice thick. “Not tonight. Not when it gets loud again. Not when you’re too much or too quiet or too anything. I’ve loved you through every version of you I’ve known. And I’m still here. Because it’s you. Because it’s always been you for me.”
I let the tears fall freely now—no hiding, no wiping them away. He kissed them off my cheeks, soft and unhurried, then tucked my face back against his throat and held me like I was the only thing keeping him steady.
We didn’t speak again after that. We held each other in the quiet dark, listening to the river outside, feeling the steady beat of each other’s hearts slow together, the faint tremor in our limbs finally easing into something warm and sure and shared.
For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel empty. It felt like the safest place either of us had ever been.
We didn’t speak for a long minute. We breathed together, my cheek pressed to his chest, his hand sliding up and down my back in slow, soothing strokes. Then he tilted my chin up with two fingers and kissed me again.
This kiss was different—slower, deeper, unhurried in the way only people who finally have time can kiss.
His lips moved over mine with deliberate tenderness, tasting and savoring, as if he were memorizing every texture.
I sighed into his mouth, and he groaned softly, the sound vibrating through me.
His tongue brushed mine, and I felt heat bloom low in my belly, sweet and heavy, but neither of us pushed for more.
We kissed like that for what felt like forever—long, sweet kisses that made my toes curl under the quilt, soft bites on my lower lip that drew small gasps from me, open-mouthed kisses along my jaw and down the side of my neck until I tilted my head back and whispered his name again, just to feel it on my tongue.
His hand slid over my waist, fingers splaying wide like he needed to feel as much skin as possible. I arched into the touch, and he rewarded me with another slow, deep kiss that left me trembling.
When we finally pulled back to breathe, his thumb traced the curve of my cheek.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice wrecked and reverent. “I still can’t believe you’re letting me hold you like this.”
I smiled against his mouth. “I can’t believe it took us this long.”
He kissed me once more, then eased us both down onto the pillows. He pulled me into the cradle of his body, my back to his front, one arm banded around my waist, the other slipped under my head like a pillow. His chin notched over my shoulder; his breath stirred the fine hairs at my nape.
I laced my fingers through his, where they rested over my stomach.
We lay like that while the river sang outside and Aggie’s lights blinked through the window in soft, cheerful pulses. His heartbeat thudded steadily against my spine. His thumb moved in slow circles over my knuckles.
I fell asleep wrapped in him, safe and wanted and finally, completely at home. The trailer was quiet except for our breathing. And for the first time in years, the dark didn’t feel empty. It felt shared.
Hours later, I woke to the sound of gravel crunching under tires. Then footsteps, the sound of someone who knew exactly where they were going. Gray morning light seeped through the curtains. The river murmured softly. The campground held its breath.
Then the knock. Sharp. Staccato. Expectant.
“Becca.”
Travis.
The sound of his voice did what it always did before my brain could stop it — shot straight down my spine and lit every nerve ending at once. Not fear exactly. Not anymore. Something hotter than that, and uglier. My jaw clamped shut so hard I felt it in my back teeth.
Levi stirred beneath me, immediately alert. His arm tightened around my waist for one protective second before he eased me off his chest and sat up. His hair was sleep-mussed, eyes already sharp. He didn’t speak. Just looked at me, reading everything in my face, then nodded once.
I was already out of the blanket before I’d decided to move.
Muscle memory, maybe. Or rage. I grabbed my sweatshirt and dragged it over my head, shoved my legs into my pants, and crossed the narrow trailer with my pulse loud in my ears and my hands.
My hands started to shake, and I wasn’t going to let them.
I pressed my thumbnail into my palm hard enough to sting and kept walking.
He showed up here. He actually showed up here.