Chapter 13
Thirteen
Liz
Iwake to warmth—heavy and solid and alive. Soft air moves across my skin, carrying salt and something woodsy. For a second, I think I’m dreaming…maybe back in Vancouver, wrapped in a bed that isn’t mine. Then the world sharpens.
There’s an arm around my waist.
My breath catches.
The weight is steady, the hold sure. The body behind me is unmistakably male—solid chest, slow breathing, and the subtle grind of hips with each exhale.
I’m not dreaming.
The fortress of pillows I built last night—my safety line, my careful control—is gone. His body is flush against mine. The hard length of him fits snugly between my ass cheeks, barely disguised behind the thin barrier of my sleep shorts.
Oh God.
I freeze, caught between shock and something else. Something low and traitorous that makes my pulse flutter.
“Liz,” he murmurs.
The sound melts through me before reason catches up. His arm tightens, his hand shifting until his palm cups my breast. His thumb brushes the fabric—light, unthinking—enough to pull a gasp from my throat. My nipple hardens, and I shiver with excitement I don’t want to feel.
It’s instinct to move, but I freeze. His breath whispers across my shoulder, warm and slow, and my mind is a war—whether to scream or lean back into it.
Then he kisses me.
Barely a kiss—a half-asleep press of lips to my shoulder—but it lands intimate and uninvited. Heat burns down my spine.
I hold still, afraid to wake him, afraid not to. Every inch of me is aware of him—the roughness of his jaw against my neck, the solid muscle at my back, the rise and fall of his chest syncing with mine.
Then he grinds against me, hard enough to steal my breath. It would be so easy to turn, open my legs, and let muscle memory take over. For a dizzy second, I imagine it—his mouth, his hands, that old rhythm of want and surrender—and the ache pulses through me, sharp and terrifying.
Move, Liz.
I inch forward, slow and careful, slipping out from under his arm. He shifts, mumbling something I can’t make out, then rolls onto his back. Cool air rushes in where his body was.
I stand beside the bed, heart hammering. Sunlight filters through the curtains, catching on his skin where the sheet’s fallen to his waist. He looks peaceful. Completely unaware.
It was nothing. A sleep reflex. Two people too close.
But the truth vibrates under my skin—the ghost of that touch, how right it felt before he disappeared from my life.
He stirs. His eyes open, blinking against the light. He looks at me, confusion knitting his brow. “Liz?” His voice is rough, still wrapped in sleep. “What…where are the pillows?”
I glance at the floor. “They didn’t survive the night.”
He sits up, rubbing the back of his neck, his expression sliding from confusion to horror. “Did I—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in. “You were asleep.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” I crouch to pick up a pillow, using movement to hide the heat in my face. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”
“I feel like I should—”
“Apologize? Already done.” I force a small laugh. “Let’s just forget it.”
I tuck a pillow back onto the bed and keep my hands busy, gathering my clothes. I showered before I went to sleep, but I need another to rinse off the night.
He watches me for a long moment. The silence stretches.
“I’ll find another room,” I say finally. “There’s got to be a cancellation.”
“You don’t have to do that.” His voice softens. “I’ll take the couch.”
I glance at the loveseat—small, pretty, useless. “You’re not sleeping on that. It’ll destroy your back. I’ll handle it.”
“Liz—”
“I mean it.” I try for a smile. “It’s fine. Really.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to argue, then nods. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
The words hang between us. I straighten the last pillow—our wall rebuilt—and head for the bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against the counter, palms pressed into cool marble. My pulse still races. The mirror throws back a version of me I barely recognize—flushed cheeks, wild hair, lips parted like I’m caught in a secret.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I turn on the shower. Steam fills the room, fogging the mirror until I disappear.
When I step under the spray, the heat hits my skin, chasing away the chill. I wash quickly, but the memory clings—his hand, his weight, the whisper of his breath at my neck. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
Just biology and bad timing. Still, I can’t shake the echo of it, the way it felt safe before it felt dangerous, the part of me that wanted to stay.
I scrub harder, like I can rinse the thought away. The soap smells like plumeria and coconut—sweet and tropical and too soft for the sharp edges of my thoughts.
When I step out, the room is still thick with steam. My reflection is a blur as I towel off and dress. My hair goes up, makeup on, my face settling into something professional. Controlled. Safe.
I can do this.
When I open the door, cooler air rushes in. The bed’s made, perfectly smooth. I stand there, towel in hand, looking for any sign of him.
Nothing.
He’s gone.
And even though I said that’s what I wanted, a small hollow opens under my ribs.
But it’s better this way—cleaner. No awkward good mornings. No more apologies. But the ache doesn’t care. It lingers as I pull my bag over my shoulder and grab my badge and notebook.
I ride the elevator down with two nurses from the mainland who are laughing about the time difference—their bodies still thinking it’s ten a.m. Mine too. Maybe that’s why everything feels off-kilter, stretched between exhaustion and adrenaline.
The doors open onto the lobby downstairs, and morning light filters through palm leaves and wide windows, painting the marble floor in gold and green. My ears fill with the rush of waterfalls spilling into the koi pond.
I stop at the front desk, clinging to hope. The woman behind the counter wears her hair in a glossy twist with a pink plumeria tucked behind her ear. Her smile is warm.
“Hi,” I say, leaning in. “Any cancellations? Anyone not checked in? I’m looking for a room.”
Her smile softens. “I’m sorry. We’re at full capacity.”
I exhale slowly. “Right. Of course. Do you have a list of nearby hotels?”
She pulls out a laminated sheet and winces. “Here you go, but… Well, there’s a Comicon on the island this week. The news said there isn’t a free room anywhere.”
I blink. “You’re kidding.”
Before she can answer, a couple strolls past in full Starfleet uniforms. Behind them, a group of Stormtroopers clatters across the marble like they’re late for battle.
I shut my eyes and rub the bridge of my nose. “This can’t be happening.”
She tries not to laugh. “I’m afraid it is.”
“Thank you for your help,” I say. “Can I leave my info in case something opens?”
“Of course.” She writes as I dictate.
Five more nights like this—how?
I thank her again and head toward the conference center. When I arrive, people are lined up for coffee and breakfast, the air full of chatter about the beach.
I bypass the buffet, grab a cup, and follow the crowd into the ballroom. The banner across the stage reads Healing the Healer: Understanding the Self in Service. That feels uncomfortably close.
I find a seat near the back and after a few minutes, the lights dim as a woman in a bright floral dress steps up to the podium.
“Good morning, everyone,” she begins. “We’re thrilled to kick off the first day of sessions with a topic that matters to every one of us. Please welcome our guest speaker, Joy Love.”
Applause rises. I open my notebook and prepare to disappear.
Joy adjusts her mic. “Good morning. Today, we’re talking about how trauma can mirror itself in our relationship patterns.”
The words stop me cold.
She smiles. “I once worked with a nurse who couldn’t understand why she kept ending up in the same kind of relationship—different people, same pattern. She’d take care of them, anticipate every need, and eventually burn out—hurt, exhausted, wondering what went wrong.”
Heads nod.
“She said, ‘I’m a professional caregiver. I should be good at this.’ And I told her, ‘That’s exactly why it keeps happening.’”
Soft laughter.
“When we spend our lives caring for others, we learn to read pain before people speak it. We learn to fix things fast, stay calm, be dependable. But those instincts can pull us into relationships that recreate the very wounds we’ve spent years helping others heal.
We fall into what’s familiar because familiar feels safe, even when it isn’t. ”
She pauses. “Healing the healer starts with understanding the self in service. It’s not about judging our patterns. It’s about tracing where they come from and gently rewriting them.”
Her words ripple through the room. A murmur spreads.
“When you grow up managing chaos,” she continues, “control starts to look like safety. You micromanage emotions. You over prepare. You don’t trust ease because ease feels like the calm before the storm.”
Control. Safety. Familiar pain.
Each word hits like a pulse. My pen hovers but doesn’t move.
I think of the pillow wall I lined up, believing boundaries would keep me safe. How fast they fell. Breath at my neck. A hand sliding close. My name spoken like a secret.
My body remembers before my mind does.
My mind wanders—I’m not even sure where—and when I focus again, Joy is finishing up.
“Remember, you don’t have to decide anything immediately,” she says.
“Just notice when you feel safe and when something in you tightens and wants out. Both responses make sense. Our work is learning which one deserves your trust.”
Applause breaks out, and people rise, gathering bags and coffee cups, murmuring about the next session. I stay seated, staring at the mostly blank page.
Control. Safety. Repetition.
The words blur, and beneath them, I write something small, barely legible.
I don’t know which kind this is.
The room empties until only the scent of coffee and ocean air lingers. I close my notebook and take one last sip, letting the rhythm of waves beyond the windows steady me.
Finally, I rise and exit. Outside, the day is bright. Palms sway in the breeze. Somewhere down the path, laughter carries, a reminder that life keeps moving, no matter what happens in the dark before dawn.
I square my shoulders, breathe in deep, and tell myself I can learn a different kind of safe.