29. Tempting Fate
TEMPTING FATE
NATE
She's finally asleep.
Her breathing has evened out, deep and steady, her face relaxed in a way it hasn't been since she arrived.
The tension she carries in her jaw has softened.
Her hand, which was curled into a fist against the pillow, has opened slowly, fingers unfurling like she's finally let go of whatever she was holding onto.
A smart man with any sense of self-preservation would extract himself from this bed, from this cabin, from this entire situation before it crosses the line from honorable to catastrophic.
I've never claimed to be smart when it comes to her.
So instead, I just lie here in the dark, watching her dream, knowing with absolute certainty that I'm completely fucked.
Wes might be a cheating bastard who deserves significantly worse than internet exposure, but she hasn't officially ended it. And here I am, lying in her bed, having just held her half-naked in a shower while she fell apart.
The way I feel about you doesn't make sense.
Her words echo in my head, mixing with the memory of her body pressed against mine under the water.
Showers have become a theme. An ongoing, torturous theme.
First mine—her standing outside the bathroom door in pajama shorts while I was mid-fantasy about doing exactly what I'm trying not to think about right now.
And now this. Her falling apart in her shower. Me holding her while water poured over us both, her body against mine, lace and skin and the kind of trust that makes my chest ache.
I shouldn't be replaying it—wet hair, smudged makeup, lace bra clinging to her skin, leaving almost nothing to imagination. Her hand on my face. Her lips inches from mine. The way she leaned in like kissing me was the only logical conclusion to years of wanting.
And I stopped it.
I fucking stopped it.
Because I'm supposed to be the good guy here. The one with boundaries. The one who doesn't take advantage of drunk, heartbroken women even when they're looking at me like I'm the answer to every question they've ever asked.
But Christ, it almost killed me to pull away.
My body is still thrumming with unspent want. These track pants feel too tight. My hands ache with the memory of her skin.
If circumstances were different—if she was sober, if she wasn't engaged, if her world wasn't actively imploding—I would have done exactly what every instinct was screaming at me to do.
I would have grabbed her face in both hands, backed her up against that shower wall, and shown her exactly how a woman like her deserves to be loved.
Worshipped. Consumed.
Would have kissed her until she forgot her own name, let alone his. Would have peeled that wet lace off her skin slowly and learned every sound she makes, every place that makes her gasp, every way to make her fall apart in my hands all over again.
I would have fucked her like I'd never get the chance again—desperate and thorough and with seven years of pent-up need behind every touch.
My cock strains against my sweatpants at the thought.
But I didn't.
Because even though every cell in my body was screaming at me to take what she was offering, I know the difference between what she needs and what she wants.
And right now, she needs someone to protect her from making decisions she might regret.
Even if that someone is me.
Even if it means protecting her from myself.
And then there's fucking Wes.
My jaw clenches at the thought of him. My hands curl into fists against the sheets.
He had her.
He fucking had her—this incredible, brilliant, beautiful woman who lights up rooms just by existing in them—and he threw it away for what? A fling with some actress?
Does he even know what he had?
She doesn't give herself easily. She never has. I know that better than anyone.
And this asshole proposed to her, promised her forever, and then cheated on her like she was nothing.
The image of her in that shower—sobbing, breaking apart, unable to breathe—flashes through my mind and the rage intensifies.
He did that to her.
What I can't move past is how he made her question her own judgment. Made her blame herself for his fuck-up. Made her feel like she should have seen it coming, like missing the signs was her failure instead of his.
I hate him for that most of all.
For making her doubt herself when she's the most sure thing I've ever known.
I take a breath. Force my hands to uncurl. Make myself focus on her steady breathing instead of the violence churning in my chest.
She's here. She's safe. She's sleeping peacefully for the first time since she arrived.
And she's not going back to him.
I'll make sure of it. Not by interfering. Not by making demands or ultimatums or declarations she's not ready to hear.
But by being here. By being the alternative. By showing her what it looks like when someone sees all of her—the brilliant and the broken and everything in between—and stays anyway.
I've thought about touching her again. Dreamed about it. Woken up hard and aching from memories and fantasies that blur together.
But none of it came close to the reality of actually having her in my arms again.
And now that I know what it feels like? Now that I've felt her skin under my hands, heard her breathing change when I touched her, seen how she looks at me when she wants me?
I'm completely ruined for anyone else.
Not that I wasn't already.
I always knew why I couldn’t move on. Why I kept her birthday as my passcode and compared every woman I met to a memory I was supposed to have outgrown.
Because moving on meant accepting a future without her, and that's something I'm not ready to do.
Something I don't think I'll ever be ready to do.
Even if she walks away tomorrow and chooses to fix things with Wes. Even if she decides that what we had was just nostalgia. Even if years apart taught her nothing except that leaving was the right choice.
I'd still wait.
I'd still hope.
I'd still be right here.
She shifts in her sleep, moving closer unconsciously, and her hand brushes against mine.
Just the slightest contact—her fingers against my knuckles—but it sends electricity up my arm.
I don't pull away.
Instead, I let my fingers curl around hers gently, carefully.
Her hand relaxes in mine, and even in sleep, she moves closer, seeking warmth or comfort or just the reassurance that she's not alone.
I guess sometimes logic doesn't understand fate.
There's no logical reason why we should still fit together after all these years apart.
No rational explanation for why her presence in my life feels more right than anything else ever has.
No way to make sense of the fact that two weeks ago I was fine—functional, focused, building something meaningful—and now I'm lying in her bed knowing that if she leaves again, it might actually fucking destroy me this time.
But fate doesn't care about logic.
And what we have—what we've always had—is inevitable.
Tomorrow, there will be consequences to navigate.
She'll wake up and remember what she said. Remember what almost happened. Remember that she's still technically promised to someone else, even if that promise has been broken from his end.
Tomorrow, we'll have to talk about what this means. About what comes next. About whether we're brave enough to try again or foolish enough to think it could work when it didn't before.
But right now, I'm just going to lie here and hold her hand in the dark and pretend that this—her sleeping peacefully beside me, her fingers laced with mine, her breathing steady and sure—is enough.
Even though I know it isn't.
Even though I know I want more.
My eyes finally close, exhaustion catching up with adrenaline and emotion.
And as I drift off to sleep with her hand in mine and the memory of her body against mine still burning through my veins, I think:
This is going to hurt.
Because either she stays and we try to build something from the ruins of what we were, or she leaves and I have to learn how to exist in a world where I know exactly what I'm missing.
Either way, I'm already in too deep to come out unscathed.
But lying here with her, feeling her breathe, knowing she's safe and here and mine for at least this one night—
I'd take the pain a thousand times over if it meant having this—even for a night, even for a heartbeat, even if it shatters us both come morning.
Because some things are worth the breaking.
Some people are worth the ruin.
And she's always been both.