Chapter 29
When I woke up, the silence was heavy in my ears. I blinked several times, a little disoriented. I wasn’t in my bedroom; the scent of popcorn still dusted the air. I still had his sweatshirt wrapped around me, sleeves tugged over my fingers. But the bed was empty…
I sat up too fast. The blanket slipped down my legs, and the cold hit me hard — or maybe that was just nerves, already clawing up my throat. I padded down the hall, the wooden floor cool under my feet.
I found him in the living room.
Asleep.
On the couch.
He hadn’t even made up the cushions. Just crashed sideways, half-covered by the throw blanket he’d given me earlier. Boxers. No shirt. The pale stretch of his back rose and fell with each soft breath. One arm slung over his face. The other tucked tight to his ribs.
There was something obscene about it — not the skin, but the tenderness. The vulnerability of it. This beautiful, broken man, who had every reason to shut the world out, had let me in anyway.
My breath caught somewhere between my heart and my lungs. I couldn’t see straight.
He should’ve made me sleep on the couch. Should’ve kicked me out of his life and away from whatever mess I was dragging in.
But no, he’d put me in his bed.
And let himself shiver out here.
I crossed the room before I knew what I was doing. Tucked the blanket up around his shoulders. My fingers brushed bare skin. Warm and steady and real.
I glanced down. I meant to step away — and then I saw it.
His phone. Slipped from his hand, half-hidden under the throw pillow. The lock screen was still glowing.
And it was me.
The photo we’d taken hours ago — half-casual, half-lie. Me… curled into his side. His lips at my cheek. Me in his sweatshirt, his hand just beneath it.
Posted for the world. But saved for him. I stared at it as if it might vanish. Like it might mean something.
God, I was so fucked.
Every ‘rule’ I had set in place last night had been vanquished with the setting sun. No staying over unless his presence relaxed me past the point of consciousness.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly thick.
“You’re gonna break my heart,” I whispered, so soft it could’ve been a dream. My fingers brushed a loose curl off of his forehead, lingering a beat longer than I should have.
I turned to leave. Quiet. Gentle. I just needed to get back into bed. To stop making this worse. To stop pretending I didn’t want every second of it. And then —
“Don’t go.” His voice was gravel and heat. Barely audible. Like maybe he wasn’t awake at all.
I froze.
Turned back slowly.
His eyes were half-closed, lashes fanned against his cheek. But his head was tilted now. Toward me. Like he’d followed my voice out of sleep. “Ansel,” I whispered.
He didn’t answer — not with words, anyway. Just reached. His hand brushed my wrist, clumsy and soft, not trying to pull me close. Just touching, like he needed to know I was still there.
Like maybe he dreamed about this too.
“I wasn’t—” I started. Swallowed. Tried again. “I was just going back to bed.”
His fingers curled lightly around my wrist. Not tight. Not pleading. “Stay.”
A breath.
A beat.
Then quieter — like it cost him something to say it, “Please, June.”
And that was the moment. Not a kiss. Not even a confession.
Just this.
Him, blinking up at me like he’d cracked himself open in the dark.
Me, holding the pieces. Too afraid to keep them. Too wrecked to let them go.
I sank to the floor beside the couch, my knees folding under me, his hand still wrapped around my wrist. “Okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
Or… even though it was.
He exhaled a heavy sigh. And when his thumb brushed once — just once — against my skin, I leaned in and let my forehead rest against his chest.
We didn’t say anything after that.
We didn’t need to.
Because this was the almost.
The just-before.
And… oh my god.
I have never been so afraid of falling.
When I woke up, everything was warm.
Not the kind of warmth that came from a comforter or the sun through the curtains — no. This was different. This was warm, like breath against my hair. Like a heartbeat against my cheek.
Like arms.
I didn’t open my eyes right away. I didn’t want to break it.
I was still curled on the floor, but I wasn’t alone.
Sometime in the middle of the night, he must’ve slipped down beside me.
Because I was wrapped up in Ansel. With one arm tucked around my waist, his palm spread against my stomach.
My back pulled against his chest. His breath slow and steady at the curve of my neck.
And I was — God. I was held.
There were no spaces between us. Nothing but the thin barrier of the hoodie and his boxers. His legs tangled with mine. Pressed against me like he could shield me from everything — nightmares, cold, the entire damn world.
And maybe the worst part?
He had.
Somewhere in the night, without asking, without meaning to, Ansel had become safe. Not just safe — something more.
I opened my eyes. The living room was cast in the first light of dawn, gold and pale and quiet. My phone buzzed weakly under the couch. The world was waking up.
But I couldn’t move.
I didn’t want to move.
Because if I did, this would end. If I shifted even a little, he might remember what we were pretending to be. And I couldn’t face the space that would come next.
So I stayed. One more minute. Just one more. Let myself breathe him in. Cedar. Vanilla. Leather and safety. The sound of his breath, the press of his chest, the way his arm tightened when I shifted just a little.
And then —
His voice. Rough and sleep-drunk. Low enough to kill me. “You’re still here,” he murmured.
I froze.
His hand flexed once against my stomach, then settled again. “Didn’t think you would be.”
“I… didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He let out a breath. A laugh, but not really. “I’m glad you did.”
And I didn’t answer. My mouth was full of words I couldn’t say. Of wishes I didn’t have permission to make.
So I just lay there. In his arms. Teetering on the precipice of something I just couldn’t name. Something I was unwilling to speak into the air around me.
And Ansel didn’t let go.