2. Chapter 2 #3
The words are light, but I hear it anyway. The small crack in his voice. The hurt underneath the casual shrug. He curls his long legs up awkwardly on the too-short couch, turning his face away from me like he can hide it if he just stops looking.
I wish I did not know him so goddamn well.
Years of watching him, of noticing every shift in his mood, every time his laugh gets a little too loud to cover something raw.
He thinks I do not see it—the way rejection, even small and stupid like this, lands like a bruise.
Because Cole Vance has spent his whole life convinced that if he is not entertaining enough, not charming enough, not enough, people will leave.
And now I am the one making him feel that way.
I stand there in the middle of the room with arms crossed over my chest, my fingers digging into my skin.
The couch looks miserable. He will wake up sore and cranky tomorrow, and it will be my fault.
Because I am too fucking scared to share a bed with him.
Too scared of what it would mean. Too scared I would reach for him in the middle of the night and ruin everything.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. Cole stays curled on the couch, pretending to scroll on his phone, but I can see the tension in his shoulders. It grates on me more than it should.
“Cole.”
“Hm?” He doesn’t look up from his phone, his thumb still moving across the screen like whatever is on there is suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
I exhale slowly through my nose. “Shower. Then get your ass in bed.”
Cole looks up, eyebrows raised in surprise. He stands quickly, shaking his head as he heads toward the bathroom. “No, no, it’s fine. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
I feel my muscles tighten. The stubbornness. The way he immediately tries to make himself smaller so I do not have to deal with him. It irritates me. It hurts more.
“Did I fucking stutter, Hollywood?” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended, low and accented and heavy with frustration.
Cole stops mid-step. He turns slowly, staring at me with those wide golden-brown eyes. For once, he looks genuinely caught off guard—no quick comeback, no loud laugh to fill the space. Just him, looking at me like he is trying to figure out if I am serious.
I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. He can sleep on the damn couch and wake up hating me tomorrow, or he can take the bed like I told him. Either way, I am not letting him punish himself because I am too much of a coward to share space with the one person I want too badly.
Cole’s mouth opens, then closes again. That familiar smirk tries to creep back onto his face, but it does not quite land. Not this time.
We both shower in turns, the sound of running water the only thing breaking the heavy silence in the room.
I go first, quick and efficient, trying not to think too hard about the fact that Cole will be using the same bathroom right after me.
When I come out in a plain black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, Cole disappears inside without a word.
He takes longer. When he emerges, his dark curls are damp and messy, skin still slightly flushed from the hot water, wearing nothing but loose basketball shorts and a worn Reapers hoodie that hangs off one shoulder.
Now we are standing on opposite sides of the bed like it is a cursed object dropped between us.
The king mattress suddenly feels too big and too small at the same time.
I stare down at the crisp white sheets, then lift my eyes to meet his.
Cole does the same. The tension is thick enough to choke on.
“Are you sure?” He asks, quieter than usual. He gestures vaguely toward the sad little couch. “The couch looks comfy. I really don’t mind—”
I glare at him. “Bed. Now,” I say, leaving no room for argument.
Cole huffs, dramatic as always, but there is a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes before he masks it with that trademark smirk. “Fine. But don’t blame me if something happens.”
I roll my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. “Vance… we are adults. I’m sure we have self-control.”
The words sound steadier than I feel. Cole lets out a soft, disbelieving snort as he climbs onto the far side of the bed, pulling the covers back and settling in like he is trying to take up as little space as possible.
I stand there a moment longer, watching the way his curls fall against the pillow, the way his shoulders are still slightly tense even as he tries to act casual.
I turn off the main lights, leaving only the faint glow from the bedside lamp on my side, then slide under the covers on the opposite edge of the mattress.
The bed dips slightly under my weight. There is still a wide, deliberate space between us, but it does not feel like enough.
Not when I can smell his cologne mixed with hotel soap.
Not when the memory of his feet in my lap on the plane is still burned into my hands.
Cole shifts once, twice, then goes still. I stare at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Two nights. Just two nights of this.