Chapter 11 Cold Sheets
Cold Sheets
Langston
She’s asleep.
I know because I counted every single one of her breaths until the rhythm evened out. Slow. Steady. Like the tension finally bled out of her bones.
God, it feels good—holding her like this. My arm draped around her waist, her back pressed tight against me, her hair soft against my lips.
I could stay here all night.
I probably shouldn't.
I know myself, and I know the edge I’m balancing on.
Sabrina’s nervous—I felt it in every line of her body, in the way she went stiff when she realized what she could feel against her. But I wasn’t going to push. I don’t force myself on women.
And I’m sure as hell not starting with her.
Because eventually, she’ll want me.
Eventually, she’ll crave me the way I already crave her.
Seeing her in my shirt tonight rewired something in me.
The second she walked out of that bathroom—bare legs, damp hair, drowning in my clothes—the thought hit me like a lightning strike.
Mine.
And that hasn’t changed, not one bit.
Careful not to wake her, I slip my arm from around her and slide out of bed. She stirs but doesn’t wake, and I stand there for a moment, just watching. The sight of her curled up in my bed knocks something loose in my chest.
Shaking it off, I grab my phone off the nightstand and sink into the chair by the window.
One swipe, and I’m staring at the photo she insisted we take earlier.
Our “first night married,” she’d said, grinning as she leaned close, my phone angled just right. She was shocked when I told her the only selfies I’d ever taken were with Coleman’s twins. She practically shoved the phone into my hand, demanding proof.
I didn’t want to take it. But now…
Now I can’t stop looking at it.
I save it as my phone background with a swipe of my thumb, smiling like a damn fool.
Then I scroll down to a message thread I haven’t touched in months.
John (PI):
Blackwell. You alive?
I type fast. Seeing that I haven’t needed him I'm not sure how long it will take for him to get back to me.
Me:
Married. Need a full background on Sabrina Kensington.
The typing dots appear almost instantly.
John:
Married? Jesus, man. You should’ve asked for this before you signed your life away.
Me:
Just get it done.
John:
You’ll have it in a couple days. Congrats, by the way. Try not to screw it up.
I lock the screen and scrub a hand over my jaw. A couple days. Fine. I can wait. But not knowing is eating me alive.
Finally, I swipe to the group chat. The one with the guys.
Coleman. Dean. Nathan. Harvey.
The bastards are probably still awake, waiting for me to break.
The chat is already active when I open it.
Dean:
Still laughing about the way you dragged your wife out of the Reserve like some scene out of a mob movie.
Harvey:
Yeah, damn, Blackwell. “Don’t touch my fucking wife”? Whole place froze. Savage.
Coleman:
You realize she had half the bar staring, right? Red hair blazing, eyes shooting fire, ready to cut a man in half. You two together? Terrifying.
Dean:
Hot, though. Terrifying, but hot.
I scrub a hand down my face, half-smiling despite myself.
Me:
She didn’t belong anywhere near that asshole.
Harvey:
Pretty sure everyone figured that out the second you stormed across the floor.
Coleman:
So… how’s married life treating you?
Me:
None of your damn business.
Dean:
That means he’s already whipped.
Harvey:
Oh, he’s whipped. Look at him, defending her like a gladiator.
The typing bubble pops up again, and this time it’s Nathan. He’s slower. Always careful with his words.
Nathan:
Just don’t get reckless, man. I don’t want to see you hurt.
The others keep ribbing, tossing gifs and smart-ass comments, but I don’t answer. Not right away.
Because Nathan means it. And his warning sits heavier than theirs.
I remember how he looked after his first love gutted him. How the shine dimmed from his eyes and never really came back. He loved once, hard, and it nearly destroyed him.
I glance at the bed. Sabrina’s curled there in my shirt, breathing soft, the sheets tangled around her.
No.
That won’t be me.
She won’t do that to me.
I won’t let her.
I set the phone aside and slide back under the covers. She sighs the second I wrap my arm around her, like her body was waiting for me.
I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in, a smile tugging at my mouth despite everything.
Mine.
Cold.
That’s the first thing I register when I wake—the sheets beside me are cold. The weight of her is gone. No warmth. No soft sound of her breathing.
Just empty.
My gut sinks before my brain catches up.
She left.
The thought hits like a fist, sharp and deep. My chest tightens, because the idea of her slipping out without a word… without so much as a glance back at me—Christ, it feels worse than I expected.
I stare at the pillow where her head rested, hair still faint against the linen. I can almost hear her sighing the way she did when I pulled her close last night, like she finally let herself trust me.
And now she’s gone.
No note. No goodbye.
My jaw clenches as I shove a hand through my hair. It shouldn’t matter. We barely know each other. This marriage isn’t supposed to be about feelings.
But the hollow ache twisting in my stomach doesn’t care about logic.
Because if Sabrina can just leave without a word?
Maybe Nathan was right. Maybe I’m not as untouchable as I thought.
I drag myself out of bed, pull on the shirt from last night, and stare at the door.
And all I can think is—if she really left me, I’ll find her.
And when I do, she’s going to have to understand something I should’ve made clear from the start.
She doesn’t get to walk away.
Not from me.
The hollow in my chest is still raw when I hear it—the sharp click of the suite door unlocking.
I turn just as it swings open.
Sabrina steps inside, juggling a paper bag and two to-go cups, muttering to herself like she forgot I exist.
“…stupid, so stupid. Should’ve just left like I wanted. Who even knows if he drinks coffee? Or eats bagels? He probably has some fancy breakfast chef flown in every morning. God, he’s going to hate me. I suck at this whole wife thing.”
She kicks the door shut with her heel, still talking under her breath, completely oblivious that I’m standing ten feet away, watching her unravel.
Relief crashes through me so fast I almost laugh. The bed was cold because she left—but not because she left me. She just went out.
My lips twitch as I fold my arms, leaning against the wall.
She finally notices me, freezing mid-step. The flush creeping up her neck is instant, adorable.
“You’re awake,” she blurts.
“Clearly.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to, all the leftover panic bleeding through.
Her eyes drop to the bag in her hand. “I… uh… I got coffee. And bagels. I didn’t know what you like, so I just guessed, which was probably dumb—”
I push off the wall and close the distance between us in three long strides. Her words tangle into silence the second I take the cups from her hands and set them on the table.
“You left,” I say quietly, searching her face. “I thought—”
I cut myself off before the truth slips out. I thought you were gone for good.
She bites her lip, looking guilty. “I just wanted to do something normal.”
Normal. Coffee runs and bagels.
For the first time in years, someone’s trying to do something for me—not for my name, not for my legacy. Just me.
And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t hit deeper than I expect.