Chapter 7
Steph
I'm not asleep when Kevin carries me to bed.
I should tell him I'm awake. That I can walk, and he doesn't need to lift me like I weigh nothing and cradle me against his chest like I'm something precious.
But I don't.
Because of the feel of his arms around me, the solid warmth of his chest, the way he moves, making sure not to wake me—it's the safest I've felt in years. Maybe ever.
He set me down on the bed with a gentleness that makes my throat tight. The blanket comes up over my shoulders, tucked in with the same care he does everything. Then his hand brushes my hair back from my face, his touch feather-light.
"Goodnight, Gorgeous," he whispers so quietly I almost miss it.
Gorgeous.
My heart stutters.
Then he presses a kiss to my forehead—soft, lingering, achingly tender—and the warmth of it spreads through me like liquid heat.
I keep my breathing even as he steps back. As he walks to the door. As it clicks shut behind him.
Only then do I open my eyes.
I lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my fingers pressed to my forehead where I can still feel the ghost of his kiss.
Gorgeous.
He called me gorgeous. Like he meant it. Like it wasn't just a casual endearment but something real, something true.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around myself, but it doesn't help. My skin feels too warm, too tight. My heart won't slow down.
I can hear him moving around on the other side of the wall. The creak of the couch as he settles in. The rustle of the blanket.
He's ten feet away.
Ten feet, one thin wall, and an entire lifetime of fear standing between us.
But right now, lying here in the dark with his kiss still burning on my skin, that fear feels less important than the ache building low in my belly. The want I've been trying so hard to ignore.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
I can't.
My mind won't stop replaying the past few days. Kevin making coffee in my kitchen like he belongs there. His arm around my waist at the grocery store, solid and sure. The way he looked at me in the alley after Elliott grabbed me—like he would have torn the world apart to keep me safe.
The low rumble of his voice when he says my name.
Steph.
I press my thighs together, trying to ignore the heat pooling between them.
This is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman lying in my own bed, worked up over a man who's sleeping on my couch out of some misguided sense of duty. He's protecting me. That's all this is.
Except it's not.
Because protectors don't call you gorgeous in the dark. They don't kiss your forehead like you're something they've been waiting for their whole life.
They don't look at you the way Kevin looks at me. I'm the only thing in the room that matters, and it’s written all over his face. It’s how all the married men around town look at their wives.
My hand slides down my stomach almost of its own accord.
I should stop, roll over, and force myself to sleep and deal with these feelings in the cold light of morning when I can rationalize them away.
But my body doesn't care about rationalization.
It cares about the memory of Kevin's hand on my cheek in the alley, rough and gentle all at once. The feel of his chest against my side when I fell asleep on the couch. The way his thumb traced patterns on my ankle while we watched TV, absent and intimate and right.
I slip my hand beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts.
This is a bad idea.
But I'm already touching myself, already imagining what it would feel like if that thin wall disappeared.
If Kevin walked through my door right now.
If those careful, controlled hands that fold blankets and make coffee and handle drunk assholes at the bar touched me the way I've been dreaming about for far too long.
Weeks.
Months, if I'm being honest with myself.
I bite my lip, trying to stay quiet, but a soft sound escapes anyway.
On the other side of the wall, the couch creaks.
I freeze, heart hammering.
Is he awake? Did he hear me?
The apartment goes silent. So silent I can hear my breathing, ragged and too fast.
Then nothing. Just the quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside.
I need to stop. Pretend this never happened.
Instead, I close my eyes and let myself imagine.
Kevin's voice in the dark, low and rough. "Tell me what you need, Steph."
His hands on my thighs, pushing them apart. His mouth on my neck, my collarbone, lower.
The weight of him over me, solid and sure and safe.
My fingers move faster, chasing the building heat. I'm close—so close—and I should be quiet, but I can't help the small gasp that escapes when pleasure spikes through me.
"Kevin," I moan as softly as a breath.
On the other side of the wall, something thuds—like someone's fist hitting a cushion or a wall.
But I'm too far gone to care.
The orgasm rolls through me in waves, sharp and sweet and overwhelming. I bite down on my other hand to muffle the sound, my whole body trembling with the force of it.
For a long moment, I lay there, breathless and shaking, staring at the ceiling.
Then reality crashes back in.
Oh God.
I just got myself off thinking about Kevin. While he was ten feet away. Possibly awake. Possibly listening.
Mortification floods through me, hot and sharp.
Did he hear me? Does he know?
What if he walks in here tomorrow morning and looks at me with that calm, steady gaze and I have to pretend I didn't just say his name while—
I press my hands over my face and groan.
This is a disaster.
This whole situation is a disaster.
Because I'm not supposed to feel this way. I'm supposed to be healing, rebuilding, and learning how to trust again. Everything should be slow, where I keep my distance and protect myself.
I'm not supposed to be falling for the man sleeping on my couch.
But I am.
I'm falling for Kevin Dawes—his patience, his steadiness, the way he looks at me like I'm worth waiting for.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin, and stare at the wall.
On the other side, everything is silent.
But I know—somehow, I just know—Kevin is awake, lying on that couch, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the same thing I am.
The space between us. The thin walls. The way everything between us feels like it's teetering on the edge of something I don't have a name for.
Something that terrifies me more than Elliott ever could.
Because Elliott can hurt my body. He can scare me, threaten me, make me feel small and helpless.
But Kevin?
Kevin can break my heart.
And that's so much worse.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe.
It's just attraction; I lie to myself. Proximity and gratitude and the illusion of safety. It's not real.
It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told.
Because this—the ache in my chest when he smiles, the way my whole body relaxes when he walks into a room, the desperate need to close the distance between us—this is real.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
So I lie there in the dark, listening to Kevin breathe on the other side of the wall, and let myself feel it. All of it.
The want. The fear. The terrifying, exhilarating possibility that maybe—just maybe—this fake relationship we've been playing at could become something more.
If I can muster the courage to do so.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. For one blissful moment, I forget about last night. About what I did. About the mortifying possibility that Kevin heard me.
Then it all comes flooding back, and I want to burrow under the covers and never come out.
He called you gorgeous, a traitorous voice in my head whispers. He kissed your forehead. Maybe he wants this too.
Or maybe he’s genuinely being nice. Comforting. The way he's been for ten months—steady, patient, careful never to push.
I force myself out of bed and pull on a hoodie over my sleep shorts. My reflection in the mirror looks like someone who spent half the night touching herself while thinking about the man sleeping on her couch.
Fantastic.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and open the bedroom door.
Kevin's standing at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. He's already dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt that does nothing to help my current situation, his hair still damp from a shower.
He turns when he hears me, and for one heart-stopping moment, our eyes meet.
His expression is unreadable. Calm. Controlled.
But there's something in his gaze—something dark and heated and restrained—that makes my breath catch.
Oh God, he heard.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough. Deeper than usual.
"Morning," I manage, my face already heating.
He holds out a mug, and when I take it, our fingers brush. The contact sends electric bolts sprinting up my arm, and I see his jaw tighten in response.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, and there's a slight edge to the question that makes my stomach flip.
"Fine," I lie. "You?"
His mouth tips up at one corner, but it's not quite a smile. "About as well as you, I'd guess."
My face goes nuclear. "Kevin—"
"Coffee's strong this morning," he interrupts smoothly, but his eyes hold mine. "Figured we could both use it."
He absolutely knows, and he's being a gentleman about it, and somehow that makes it so much worse.
"Thanks," I whisper.
We stand there in my tiny kitchen, the air between us thick with everything we're not saying. With the memory of last night. With the tension that's been building between us for days—weeks—months.
Kevin takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.
"Steph," he says quietly. "We need to talk."
My heart pounds. "About what?"
"About this." He gestures between us. "About what's happening here."
"Nothing's happening—"
"Don't," his voice gentle but firm. "Don't lie to me. And don't lie to yourself."
I open my mouth. Close it.
He's right.
Something is happening. Something has been happening since the night he arrested Carl and looked at me like I was worth protecting.
And I'm terrified of it.
But this constant fear is exhausting.
"Okay," I whisper. "Let's talk."