Bottles, Bibs and Sangarias #2
His heartbeat against my spine—slow, steady, refusing to match my frantic rhythm.
"Out for four. One, two, three, four."
His breath is warm against my neck, and slowly, impossibly, my breathing starts to follow his lead.
"That's it," he murmurs, one hand splayed across my stomach, the other holding my shoulder. "I've got you. You're okay. I've got you."
I've got you.
Three words that always meant more than nine letters.
Three words that used to be a promise.
Three words I haven't heard in seven years but that still land like coming home.
We stay like that—him wrapped around me, both of us fully in the shower, water streaming over his clothes, his jeans, his t-shirt, soaking through to skin. His chin rests on top of my head, his arms never loosening their hold, and gradually, gradually, the panic recedes.
My breathing evens out. My heart rate slows. The black spots fade from my vision.
I become aware of other things.
The solid warmth of him against my back. His thumb drawing absent circles on my stomach. The rise and fall of his chest that I'm still matching with my own breaths. Every point where our bodies connect burning despite the water.
"Better?" he asks softly.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet.
He shifts slightly, and I turn in his arms until I'm facing him, our legs tangled on the narrow shower floor, water still pouring down.
Water drips from his hair down his face, follows the line of his jaw, trails down his neck. His dark eyes are steady on mine with an intensity that steals my breath all over again for entirely different reasons.
For a moment, it feels too familiar. Too easy.
Like no time has passed at all. Like we're still those kids who couldn't keep their hands off each other.
Something reckless stirs in my chest. Want and need and seven years of trying not to feel either. My hand comes up almost of its own accord, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. The slight stubble there, rough against my fingertips.
His breath hitches at the contact, his chest stuttering against mine.
Heat flares in my core.
His eyes darken instantly, pupils dilating, and I watch him war with himself—desire and restraint battling across his features in a way that makes my stomach clench.
I close the distance slowly, giving him time to pull away, my eyes dropping to his mouth. He stays perfectly still, every muscle tense, water streaming over both of us.
His hand tightens on my waist, fingers pressing into my skin through the wet lace of my bra, and the tremor in his grip—the effort it's taking him not to close this gap himself—makes my pulse spike.
Our lips are inches apart.
I see the exact moment he makes his decision—his jaw clenches, his eyes close briefly like he's gathering strength.
He pulls back gently, his hand coming up to cup my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone with devastating tenderness.
"Not like this," he says, and his voice is rough, strained, like every word costs him. "Not when you're hurting. Not when you've been drinking. Not when you might regret it tomorrow."
"I wouldn't regret it," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know he's right to stop this.
"Maybe not," he says softly, his thumb still tracing patterns on my face like he can't quite make himself stop touching me. "But I would. I'd regret taking advantage when you're vulnerable. I'd regret not waiting until you're sure."
His hand is still on my face, and the tenderness of it—the gentleness despite the clear want in his eyes—makes my eyes burn with tears that have nothing to do with Wes.
I lean into his hand, let myself take comfort in his touch even if I can't have more.
"Can you stay? Just until I fall asleep?"
"Yeah, Len," he says without hesitation. "I'll stay as long as you need."
He helps me out of the shower with hands that are careful and respectful, never straying, never taking advantage despite the fact that I'm in my underwear and we're both soaking wet.
He wraps me in a towel and waits outside while I change into sleep clothes—an oversized t-shirt and shorts.
When I open the bathroom door, he's gone.
My stomach drops.
The room is empty.
He left.
"Nate?" I call out, voice smaller than I intend.
No answer.
Oh god.
Shame floods through me—hot and immediate and suffocating.
I crossed a line.
I got drunk and fell apart and made him take care of me and now he's retreating because I've made everything weird and uncomfortable and he probably thinks I'm a disaster and—
The door opens.
And there he is.
Fresh clothes. Dry clothes. Grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, white t-shirt stretched across his shoulders.
I stare at him, heart still racing, shame still burning in my throat.
"I thought you left," I say quietly.
He looks at me, something soft in his expression.
"I wasn't sleeping in your bed in wet clothes," he says simply. "I just went to grab something dry from my place.”
Oh.
Oh.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it's almost embarrassing. My throat is tight. My eyes are burning again but for a completely different reason.
"I—" I start, but I don't know how to finish.
“Come on,” he gestures towards my room. “Let’s get some sleep.”
We lie down on the bed, facing each other.
Not touching but close enough that his warmth radiates between us. The room is dark except for the faint light from the bathroom we left cracked open.
The outline of his face, the shape of him in the shadows.
My eyes are getting heavier by the second and I'm fighting to stay awake, fearing this moment will end and tomorrow things will go back to being tense and awkward between us.
"Nate?" My voice is small in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"I wish I could hate you."
The confession hangs in the air between us, raw and honest.
He's quiet for a long moment.
"Do you?"
"I've tried," I say, and my voice cracks slightly. "It would make everything so much easier."
"Would it?"
"Yes." I close my eyes against the burn of tears. "Because hating you would be simple. I could just... let you be the villain in my story and move on."
"But you can't."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway.
"No. I can't."
"Why not?" His voice is so gentle it almost breaks me.
I'm quiet for so long I think he might think I've fallen asleep. But then the words come, pulled from somewhere deep and honest.
"Because hating you hurts more than this."
"Than what?"
"Than not having you in my life.”
I stop myself, pull back from the edge of admitting too much.
“It hurts less than the alternative. Less than cutting you out completely. Less than pretending you don't exist."
Silence settles between us, and his breathing in the darkness.
"I tried that," I continue quietly. "For seven years, But then I came back here and—"
My voice breaks.
"And I realized I've been lying to myself this whole time."
"Nora—"
"I don't want to hate you," I whisper. "Even though it would make sense. I just... I can't."
I pause, exhaustion making me brave in ways sobriety never could.
"How I feel about you doesn't make sense. It should have faded by now. And I don't know what to do with that."
I’ve definitely said too much and it’s the sangria talking now.
But then his voice comes through the darkness, soft and certain. "I guess sometimes logic doesn't understand chemistry."
The words land like a key turning in a lock, and something in my chest both breaks and heals simultaneously.
My eyes are closing now, exhaustion and alcohol and emotion finally winning. Sleep is pulling me under, and I'm too tired to fight it anymore.
In that liminal space between waking and dreaming, I think I hear him speak again. His voice so soft I'm not sure if it's real or if I'm already gone.
"I'm glad you can't hate me, Len. Because I could never hate you either."