Chapter 5
Jo-Leigh
Sunlight pierces through a crack in the curtain, cutting across my face and pulling me out of sleep.
I blink groggily, stretching, and then I freeze.
Swag is still in bed beside me. And at some point during the night he moved under the covers. His arm is still wrapped tightly around my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. My oversized shirt has ridden up in my sleep, and there’s a strip of bare skin now pressed flush against him.
Heat licks up my spine.
“Uh… Swag,” I whisper.
He mutters something under his breath and pulls me closer like he’s not done sleeping. Like this is normal. And then my thigh touches something hard. Very hard. I jerk back like I’ve been electrocuted, toppling off the side of the bed with a thud.
“What in the fuck was that?” Swag yells.
Scrambling upright, I yank the nearest blanket around me like armor.
My face is burning. “Guess I could ask you the same thing.”
Swag jolts upright, bleary-eyed and confused, hair sticking up on one side. His gaze drops instantly to the bed. Then to me. His eyes widen in pure horror as he yanks the blanket off himself to check if he’s wearing pants. He is. He exhales, shoulders sagging in relief.
I raise a brow, still wrapped in my cocoon. “Glad we’re both surprised.”
“Why in the fuck are we in bed together?” he growls, eyes still wide, voice thick with panic.
“You tell me,” I shoot back, gripping the blanket tighter around me. “You’re the one who came in here last night and passed out.”
He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at the floor like it might give him an answer.
“Did I—” His voice cracks. “Did I hurt you?”
I blink. “What? No! Why would you even ask that?”
His hands drag down his face, like he’s trying to scrub the memory out of his skin.
“Because I was fucked up, Jo-Leigh. Drunk. Out of my head. I shouldn’t have come in here. That was so fucking dangerous.” He drops his hands, eyes meeting mine—bloodshot, devastated. “I’m so sorry.”
My heart twists. Because that’s what he’s afraid of. That he lost control. That he might’ve become someone he never wanted to be. That he hurt me. And the part that really hits? He didn’t. Not even close.
“No need to freak out. You didn’t do anything. You slept. I slept. End of story.” I waddle awkwardly toward the door, still cocooned. “I need to shower before work.”
He grunts something unintelligible behind me.
It makes me laugh but it cuts through the leftover tension like a warm knife.
In the safety of the bathroom, I take the world’s fastest shower, scrubbing away sleep and nerves.
The hot water helps. So does getting into my clean work clothes and having a minute to breathe.
When I step back into the hallway, the scent hits me first.
Bacon.
I follow it to the kitchen and stop in the doorway.
Swag stands at the stove, spatula in hand, eggs sizzling in a pan beside a plate already piled with bacon.
My stomach growls on cue.
“That’s a heck of a way to wake up,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the doorframe. “Eggs and bacon? Are you trying to win me over?”
He glances at me over his shoulder, lips twitching into something between a smirk and a sigh.
“More like I’m trying to apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” I say, smirking as I take the plate. “I like mine extra crispy.”
He slaps a few strips onto the plate and hands it over without a word.
“This is perfect. Thank you.”
He fixes his own plate and trails after me into the living room.
“Sorry there aren’t tray tables,” I say, settling onto the couch. “I was going to get some but then didn’t.”
He waves it off. “This is how I’ve always eaten here.”
We fall into silence, the comfortable kind, as we shovel food like we haven’t eaten in a week.
When he finishes, Swag leans back with a groan. “That hit the spot.”
“I’ve always heard greasy food was good for a hangover.”
“I’m not hungover.”
“Sure you’re not.” I pause, watching him. “Want to talk about it?”
His eyes flick to mine just for a second then away.
“Not really.” He stands abruptly, taking his plate to the kitchen. When he comes back, he says, “I’ve gotta go.”
And just like that, the distance drops back in. Cold. Familiar. I stare at the space he leaves behind, the smell of bacon still lingering in the air.
“Weird.”
That’s the only word I can find for how it feels not seeing him for a few days. Like the air’s too still. Like something’s missing from the silence.
But Saturday night, he shows up again. This time he’s drunker than before.
“Swag?” I ask as he stumbles through the door.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at me. Just kicks off his boots and heads straight for my bedroom, falling heavily onto the mattress.
I stand in the hallway for a minute, unsure what to do. Unsure what this is. Then I move. I climb into bed beside him, careful, quiet. His arm snakes around me almost instantly, pulling me close like I’m the only solid thing in his world.
“You okay?” I whisper.
He grunts against my shoulder. “No.”
My heart aches at how small that word sounds in his voice.
“I’m sorry you’re hurting,” I say softly, even though I know it won’t fix anything.
And we just lie there. Wrapped in silence and grief and the unspoken promise that maybe neither of us has to hurt alone tonight.
He’s gone when I wake up. But there’s bacon and eggs waiting on the stove. No note. No text. Just the food. A silent thank you. A quiet apology. A pattern.
Another two weeks pass by. And then it happens again.
He shows up, wasted. Same heavy footsteps. Same silence. Same bed. And I follow. But this time, when I lie down, I face him. His eyes find mine in the dark as he pulls me close. There’s no hesitation now, no clumsy drunken reach—just this quiet, desperate gravity between us.
“Want to talk about it tonight?” I ask softly.
His gaze doesn’t shift away.
“She’s going to marry him,” he says.
The words land heavy between us.
“I thought maybe she’d come back,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper. “But she’s not going to.”
Something breaks in his eyes. And something breaks in me, too. Because even though he’s talking about someone else, he’s telling me. Trusting me with the part of him he never says out loud. And I don’t know how to fix it. So I just stay close. And I don’t let go.
“I’m sorry.”
“Me, too.”
I’m not sure who dozes off first.
But when I wake up, I’m wrapped in Swag’s arms.
His hand is cupping my breast. Under my shirt.
And my leg is hitched over his waist like I’ve been molded to fit him in my sleep.
My breath catches. Every nerve in my body lights up, not with fear, but something sharper.
More complicated. I stay still, my heart thudding in my chest as I try to figure out what to do.
He’s still asleep. His breathing deep and steady, lips slightly parted. There’s no tension in his face now. Just quiet. Peaceful, even. The kind of peace he never seems to find when he’s awake.
I should move.
I should .
But I don’t. Because something about this moment—about being held, about being wanted even if it’s unintentional—feels like the safest place I’ve ever woken up in. And that scares the hell out of me.
His breathing shifts. I freeze. Swag stirs slightly, his brow furrowing as his arm tightens around me, like his body’s not quite ready to let go. His thumb brushes against my nipple. It’s accidental but enough to send a jolt down my spine.
Then his eyes blink open. Heavy at first. Confused. And then they focus. On me. On how close we are. On where his hand is. He stiffens like he’s been electrocuted, jerking back just enough to break the contact, his eyes wide and raw with horror.
“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough and full of sleep. “ Fuck. ”
I sit up slowly, pulling the blanket around me even though I’m still fully clothed. “It’s okay.”
His gaze flicks from my face to my leg, which had been resting across his hips, then back again.
“I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” he cuts himself off, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”
“You were asleep,” I say quietly. “We both were.”
“I didn’t mean to touch you like that.”
“I know.”
He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “This is fucked. I shouldn’t even be here. You’re?—”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish the sentence.
“I’m what?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“I’m sorry, Jo-Leigh.”
His voice is so quiet, it barely makes it past the blanket of silence in the room.
“Swag,” I say gently. “Look at me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just keeps staring down at his hands like they’ve betrayed him.
“Please.”
That gets him. Slowly and reluctantly, he lifts his head.
His eyes are bloodshot. Raw. Like he hasn’t really slept in weeks even when he has.
There’s shame in his expression. And fear.
But mostly, it’s that grief again. The one he drinks away.
The one he buries six feet deep under the weight of control.
“I know you didn’t mean it,” I say, steady as I can. “But you didn’t hurt me. Okay?”
His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to bite back everything he doesn’t know how to say.
“You just showed up,” I continue, “and crawled into a bed that wasn’t yours. And yeah, that’s kind of messed up. But I let you stay. I wanted you to stay.”
He exhales, eyes falling shut for a second. Then he opens them again.
“You don’t get it,” he mutters. “I’m not someone you should want close.”
I blink, throat thick.
“Well,” I whisper, “too late.”
He barks out a bitter laugh, sharp and hollow. “And that right there proves my point. If you knew who I really was?—”
“I do know who you are,” I cut in, my voice rising. “You’re someone who’s kind. Someone who gave a stranger a place to stay when you didn’t have to. Someone who keeps the fridge stocked and leaves stupid pink flowerpots on the porch.”
I take a breath, but it’s shaky now.
“You’re not a monster.”