Chapter 22
Sadie
The sharp chemical tang of dye fills the air, stinging faintly at the back of my throat as I lean over the bathroom sink with gloves on, working the pink cream through the strands of my hair.
The mirror above the sink is fogged around the edges, my reflection half-blurred and half-sharp, but I can still see the washed-out streaks of color giving way to something brighter. Fresher.
It’s ridiculous how something so small—just hair—feels like control. Feels like taking a piece of myself back.
The mural is finally done. Jake wants me at the council office tomorrow morning to talk about what comes next, which means more eyes on me, more pictures, more attention.
And the truth is, the dull, faded pink I’ve been walking around with feels too much like the ghost of someone who doesn’t exist anymore.
So here I am, gloves sticky with dye, bathroom a mess, trying to make myself look like someone I can actually stand to be.
The knock at the front door startles me. I freeze, dye-stained fingers hovering midair, heart thudding. It’s late—later than I realized—and I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Another knock. Firmer this time.
I strip the gloves off, toss them into the trash, and wipe my hands on a towel. I almost debate not answering. But when I crack open the door, I see Boone standing there on the porch, broad-shouldered and rumpled, and all my hesitation evaporates.
“Hey,” I say, smiling automatically. But my smile falters when I see his expression. His jaw is tight, his eyes darker than usual, stormy in a way that doesn’t match his usual calm steadiness. Something’s wrong.
“Can I come in?” he asks. His voice is low, controlled, but I hear the undercurrent.
“Of course.” I step back quickly, gesturing him inside. “Sorry for the mess, I wasn’t—uh—planning on company.”
Boone glances around the small space, but his gaze comes back to me almost immediately. “It’s fine,” he says. “What were you doing?”
I motion toward the bathroom, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “Dyeing my hair. The mural’s finished, and Jake wants to meet tomorrow morning, so I thought… you know. I should probably touch it up so it looks more… fresh. More me.”
His eyes soften just a fraction. “It looks good already. But I get it.” He hesitates, then adds, “How can I help?”
Something twists in my chest at that. He’s clearly upset about something, his whole body telegraphing it, and yet he still asks how he can help me. I study him carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders, the restless way his hand flexes at his side.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says too quickly. “Just got into a bit of an argument with Gabe.” He tries to brush it off, but I catch the flicker in his eyes.
My stomach tightens. “Was it… about me?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. I hate how small my voice sounds, how vulnerable. I don’t want to be the reason wedges get driven between them. Not when they’ve all been nothing but kind to me.
Boone’s expression shifts the second the words leave my mouth. He steps closer, reaching out to touch my arm like he can anchor me. “Hey, no. It’s complicated, but it’s not your fault. I’ll sort it out, I promise.”
I stiffen anyway. “I don’t like being in the middle of it.”
“I know,” he says quickly. His thumb brushes against my skin. “The issue we’re having is separate. Right now, I just want to be here with you.”
The earnestness in his voice loosens something in me, and I exhale slowly. “Okay.”
He glances toward the bathroom. “So… want some help with the hair?”
I laugh, tension breaking a little. “What do you know about hair?”
“Nothing,” he admits, mouth tugging into a grin. “But I can learn.”
“Alright, paramedic,” I tease, trying to sound lighter. “Let’s see how steady those hands really are.”
Somehow, I end up sitting on the edge of the tub while Boone kneels beside me, rinsing out sections of my hair under the faucet. He’s focused, careful, like every strand matters. His large hands are gentle, supporting the weight of my hair so the water runs through it clean.
“You’re better at this than I expected,” I murmur, closing my eyes as warm water cascades down.
He chuckles softly. “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m good at following instructions.”
“Instructions, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, most of my job is following them. Staying calm when other people can’t. Making sure I don’t screw up because if I do, people get hurt. This?” His fingers skim along my scalp, sending a shiver down my spine. “This is nothing compared to that.”
When he finishes, he wraps a towel carefully around my head, squeezing the water out gently. Then he pulls me up and onto the couch, tugging me so I’m half in his lap while I towel-dry.
It feels absurdly intimate, his arm steady around me, his lips brushing my shoulder as he murmurs, “Please relax, okay?”
I nod, finally letting the tension in my body ebb.
“So,” he says after a moment, “how are you feeling about the mural? Now that it’s done.”
I lean back against him, closing my eyes. “Relieved. And scared. And proud, I guess. It feels… like a piece of me is out there now. Not just paint. Like if someone hates it, they’re hating me, too.”
He presses another soft kiss to my shoulder, his voice warm. “They won’t hate it. You gave this town something beautiful.”
His certainty seeps into me, easing the sharp edges of my anxiety. I let myself believe him.
Eventually, I head back to the bathroom to dry my hair fully. Boone trails after me, poking his head into the fridge.
“You weren’t kidding when you said you had nothing in here,” he calls, laughing. “Waffles and…condiments. That’s it?”
“Don’t mock me,” I protest, grinning despite myself.
He pulls out the sad box of frozen waffles, holding it up like evidence. “This is criminal.” Then he digs deeper. “Wait—fish and chips. Okay, this I can work with.”
I lean against the doorframe, towel still around my shoulders, watching as Boone rolls up his sleeves and commandeers my tiny kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He moves with easy confidence, humming under his breath while he heats oil and arranges everything.
My space feels different with him in it—brighter, warmer.
I finish combing out my hair while he plates the food. The smell of fried fish fills the air, cutting through the lingering tang of dye, and for a moment, it feels like something normal. Something simple.
We eat together at the little table, Boone telling some ridiculous story about one of his shifts, me laughing harder than I have in weeks. The heaviness of earlier fades.
And when he looks at me across the table, eyes full of quiet intent, I think maybe I can even let myself want this.
Want him.
Heat coils low in my belly, the kind that feels too sharp and too vivid to just be a dream.
I know it’s a dream, though—because no reality could hold this. Gabe’s mouth tracing fire down my neck, Shepard’s hands bracketing my hips, Boone’s chest pressed to my back as his voice rasps low in my ear, “ours.”
The weight of them, the hunger, the claim. My body thrums with it, desperate and reckless, and I can’t tell where one of them ends and another begins. A hand on my breast, another teasing between my thighs, lips everywhere.
It’s overwhelming. Terrifying. God, and it’s good.
I gasp awake, shoving out of the dream like I’ve broken the surface of deep water, lungs desperate for air. My heart pounds as if I’d actually been caught in the tangle of them, slick with sweat. For a split second, I don’t know where I am.
Then I feel the steady rise and fall beside me.
Boone.
He’s asleep, stretched on his side, one arm slung loose across the sheets, his frame filling the small bed like he belongs here. His lips are parted slightly, breath steady. There’s a peace to him like this, a calm I don’t think I’ve ever seen on his face when he’s awake.
I roll onto my side carefully, studying him in the dim morning light filtering through the curtains. The dream lingers like a phantom on my skin, but Boone drags me back into reality.
I let myself look. Really look.
The strong cut of his jaw, shadowed with stubble.
The blond hair mussed from sleep, sticking up in a way that makes him look younger, boyish even.
The breadth of his chest beneath the thin shirt he pulled on last night, rising and falling with each steady breath.
One arm, muscled and tan, draped across the sheet like he owns the whole damn space.
Something aches in me. When was the last time I let myself have this? The simple intimacy of watching someone sleep beside me. The permission to stare and want.
Almost without thinking, I lean forward and brush the lightest kiss along the angle of his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my lips.
His voice rumbles before his eyes even open. “You know staring is creepy, right?”
I freeze, heat rushing to my cheeks.
Boone cracks one eye open, amusement dancing there. “Caught you.”
“I wasn’t—” I start, but he shifts, rolling toward me, pinning me gently back into the mattress before I can protest further. His weight is solid above me, comforting and commanding all at once.
“You absolutely were,” he says, smirking.
“I was… observing,” I counter, breathless already.
He dips down, his mouth brushing mine in a slow kiss that steals whatever smart retort I had next. My body arches toward him instinctively, still keyed up from the dream I’ll never admit out loud.
Boone’s hand slides down, stroking over my hip, lingering at the curve of my thigh. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t take more than I give, but my pulse stutters at the promise in his touch.
He shifts his weight just enough to press his thigh between mine, and the friction makes me gasp.
“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, voice gravelled with sleep and want. “Good girl.”
I shiver, my body betraying how much I like the praise.
“Boone…”