Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
FRANKIE
W armth clung to me like a second skin, thick and suffocating, and for one indulgent moment, I didn’t care.
I burrowed deeper into it, refusing to open my eyes, refusing to move.
My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket as I stretched, slow and content.
My nose brushed against what I thought was my pillow, and I inhaled deeply.
Jake. The scent was unmistakable—clean, warm, and unreasonably familiar.
A distant purr buzzed from the direction of my desk, and I thought I felt the faint bounce of a cat leaping off the bed. A yawn tugged at my jaw. I cracked one eye open.
Still dark. Perfect. More sleep.
I shifted to settle deeper, and that’s when I felt it—the hand. Heavy. Warm. Sprawled across my stomach… and sliding upward.
My breath caught.
Wait.
What?
My eyes snapped open, and a jolt of adrenaline surged through me. I was in my bed. Definitely. But there was also someone else in it. Curled tightly against my back, solid and breathing and real . The thundering in my chest drowned out everything else.
I twisted, heart slamming against my ribs, and stared into the dim shadows.
“Jake?” My voice cracked.
He grunted, low and lazy, like I hadn’t just had a mild cardiac episode.
Then he moved—his hand tightening at my waist, anchoring me.
He curled me into him with terrifying ease, pressing his face into my hair, his breath a warm gust against my scalp.
His stubble rasped against my skin, sending a ripple of sensation straight down my spine.
My stomach twisted as I tried to turn, limbs tangled and awkward.
“It’s the middle of the night,” he mumbled, barely conscious. Still, he managed to roll to his back and drag me with him, like I was some oversized teddy bear. Dim yellow light leaked in through the edges of the blinds, just enough to catch the shape of him beside me.
His arm remained slung across my shoulders, though his hand had slid away. My own hand, traitorous and confused, settled on his chest—because I didn’t know where else to put it.
“Jake.” Sharper this time, but quieter. My pulse was racing, sleep a distant memory. “What time is it?”
He groaned, dragging me closer. One of my legs hooked over his without permission. Why did this feel so normal? So easy?
“Two-ish,” he slurred, breath warm against my temple. “You fell asleep. I carried you in. I was gonna go, but…” He yawned, wide and unbothered. “Didn’t want to.”
My mouth was dry. “You’re sleeping in my bed.” The words came out flat, pointless. Obvious.
I blinked rapidly. My eyes burned. My hand was still on his chest, where the steady thud of his heart knocked against my palm, loud and strong. We’d done sleepovers before. Years ago. Back when co-sleeping didn’t mean anything.
This wasn’t that.
This wasn’t innocent.
This was Jake . In my bed. Shirtless. Boxers. Pressed against me like he’d always belonged there.
And it wasn’t just confusing. It was terrifying.
He shifted to kiss the top of my head, then lazily traced his fingers down my bare arm. The lightness of the touch made me shiver.
“If you want me to leave,” he said, voice softer now, more awake. “I will.”
He sounded like he meant it.
He also sounded like it would kill him.
I swallowed hard. “No.” My voice cracked. “Mom’s out of town.”
As if that excused any of this.
“Cool,” he murmured, his hand easing me down like he owned me. I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. My cheek found his shoulder, and the scent of him hit me all over again, deep in my chest.
Every breath he took was a reminder that he was right there. That I wasn’t dreaming. That this could go wrong so easily.
He stroked my arm again, slow, thoughtless. Intimate.
Sleep was impossible now.
Every nerve was singing, jittery with awareness. I could feel every inch of him, warm and firm, and terrifyingly familiar. The way his leg pressed against mine. The beat of his heart, steady and solid beneath my hand. The shape of his body—one I knew, but suddenly felt like I’d never really seen.
“Frankie?” he asked, voice threaded with concern. “You okay?”
I closed my eyes. No. I was not okay. My thoughts were racing, colliding. My heart was lodged in my throat, and every breath felt like a gamble.
“I don’t think I can sleep like this,” I whispered, barely able to admit it.
Because I didn’t want to fall asleep.
I didn’t want to miss this.
“Mmm…I’ll fix it…” he murmured. The mattress dipped with a soft bounce as he shifted, and then I was being gathered—rolled gently onto my back, then my side, into heat and solidity.
A body. His body. An arm locked snug around my middle, and suddenly I was spooned tight, back pressed to his chest, one of his legs tangled with mine like we were puzzle pieces finally fitting.
One arm curved over my waist, the other slid higher—fingers spreading over my sternum. My tank top had ridden up. His hand was on my skin. His fingers were on my skin. The contact was warm and grounding and terrifyingly intimate.
It was… better.
And also so, so much worse.
Then his lips brushed behind my ear, soft, unhurried. A kiss. A real kiss. “Go to sleep,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and something else I couldn’t name. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. So, I didn’t do anything.
At some point, I drifted off. Somehow.
The next time I opened my eyes, the world was dim but clearer—the black of night shifting to the cold gray blur of dawn. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, but light rimmed the blinds. I was still on my side. Jake was still there.
His arm draped across me, loose now, but heavy. Familiar.
Comforting.
Too comforting.
Jake is in my bed.
The thought struck sharper now. Not dreamy. Not hazy. Clear.
Jake. Not my boyfriend.
Not Mathieu.
My heart stuttered.
The sudden spike of guilt was a punch to the gut, and yet… I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My hand hovered over his, then brushed it lightly, fingertips tracing the lines I knew too well. He stirred behind me, catching my hand in his, and then?—
A kiss.
Pressed to the back of my shoulder, unhurried. Intimate.
My skin lit up where his lips touched it.
“Morning,” he mumbled, voice gravel-edged, the rasp of his stubble grazing against me with every syllable. “Not time to get up yet.”
I should’ve pulled away.
I didn’t.
“I don’t know what time it is,” I said instead, voice low, almost ashamed. I pulled his hand to my chest, anchoring myself there, even as my pulse roared in my ears. His bicep curved across my chest in a way that made my breath catch. I should have shifted his hand. Should have said something.
But I didn’t want to.
He groaned, stretching, then let go and rolled onto his back. I turned to my stomach, lifting onto my elbows, watching as he blindly fumbled for his phone on the side table. The glow from the screen cut through the shadows and hit his face.
Jake. Rumpled. Stubbled. Hair a mess. No perfect styling. No cocky smile.
Just him. Raw. Real.
And devastating.
My throat tightened. My stomach clenched.
I’d seen this version of him before—but never like this. Not in my bed. Not after a night tangled together like... like that meant something.
“It’s just barely six,” he said, dropping the phone beside him. He turned toward me, his voice gentler now. “Hey...”
“Hi,” I whispered, suddenly self-conscious, retreating behind the dark again now that the phone screen had gone black. Safer not to be seen. Safer not to look too long.
Jake rolled back toward me, closing the distance like it cost him nothing. His breath brushed my cheek, warm and steady. My heart was doing anything but steady. Thundering. Crashing against my ribs like it wanted out.
He didn’t smell like sleep or sweat or morning breath.
He just smelled like Jake.
And I knew—without question—that my sheets would smell like him long after he was gone.
The thought hit me with a strange, twisted sort of panic.
When his fingers grazed my cheek, tucking my hair back behind my ear, I flinched—but only a little. Then I sighed. His touch was too soft. Too careful.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
Weird question. Loaded, actually.
Did I sleep well, tangled in the arms of someone who wasn’t mine?
Did I sleep well while forgetting Mathieu existed?
“Pretty good,” I answered, even though my voice shook. “A little weird when I realized you were still here.”
He chuckled softly. “Weird good? Or weird bad?”
His fingers traced the curve of my ear, sending shivers that made it hard to think.
I hesitated. And in that silence, I saw it—the flicker in his expression. Hope, maybe. Vulnerability. Something that made my chest ache.
Did this mean something?
Maybe it did.
How the hell…
And the worst part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to correct him.
“Weird undecided,” I said, not quite able to keep from smiling. “This is kind of—nice.”
His gaze searched mine, hungry but soft. Like this moment had been waiting for both of us to catch up to it.
“Yeah?” he murmured, his hand sliding into my hair, fingers gentle as they coasted down to the back of my neck. “Frankie?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to kiss you.”
A slow flutter of panic and desire surged through me—sweet, sharp, and terrifying.
There was no teasing in his voice, no smirk. Just sincerity. Intention.
I nodded.
Then he kissed me.
It started soft. Barely-there brushes of his lips against mine, like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. Then again. And again. Light, teasing, feather-soft. I gasped softly and he caught it, deepened the kiss, and when I opened to him, his tongue swept in—hot, slow, possessive.
The world dropped away.
He shifted, rolling us gently so I was curled into his side, his body lined along mine.
One hand slid around my waist, tugging me flush.
The other cupped the back of my neck, holding me steady as the kiss turned from searching to needy .
Every stroke of his mouth, every wet drag of his tongue sent sparks flying across my skin.
My legs tangled with his. His thigh slipped between mine, firm and unrelenting. I rocked against him before I even realized it, chasing that pressure, that burn.
Jake groaned against my mouth, one hand sliding under the hem of my tank top to touch skin. His fingers were warm and a little rough, grazing over my ribs like I was something breakable. He kissed like he was starving. Like he’d been waiting years to do this and couldn’t take it slow anymore.
And I?—
God, I wanted it. I wanted him .
I shouldn’t. I couldn’t. Then I remembered why.
The why hit me, hard, cold, and too real.
This was so new. Impossible.
Why now ?
He kissed me like I was his first—no matter how much I knew that wasn’t true. It didn’t matter, he made me feel it all. This was our first kiss.
And I?—
I’d already done this with someone else.
Not just kissed. Not just touched.
I’d gone further.
Much further.
With Mathieu .
“Jake—wait,” I breathed, heart slamming against my ribs. “Stop.”
He froze, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot against my cheek.
“What is it?” he whispered, stilling his hands, but not pulling away. Not yet.
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t. We have to stop.”
Confusion flared in his expression. Hurt started creeping in behind it.
“Too fast?” he asked, voice quiet. “Are you okay?”
I pushed gently against his chest, needing space to breathe. “Jake… We can’t—we…”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, lips parted, chest still heaving.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. Not yet.
“Frankie?”
“I’m dating someone,” I whispered. “Remember?”
Silence.
His hands dropped from me like I’d burned him. I looked up. I had to. The anger in his face made my stomach lurch.
“Frenchy.” His voice was cold now. Sharp. Not like Jake at all.
“Mathieu,” I said quietly more to remind myself than him. Mathieu didn’t deserve this. God, Jake didn’t either. What the hell had I done?
He nodded once. No emotion on his face. None I could name. Then: “Did you kiss him?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He laughed. “Never mind. Stupid question. Of course you did. Probably a lot more than that, huh?”
The air turned brittle.
I said nothing.
His smile was tight, humorless. “Frankie. Did you sleep with him?”
My silence gave him the answer he didn’t want.
He staggered back like I’d hit him. “Jesus Christ.”
His face—God, I’d never seen him look like that. Not even when his dad left. This wasn’t heartbreak.
This was betrayal.
And I had done it.
“Jake—” I started, reaching for him, but he flinched like my touch would set him on fire.
“No.” His voice cracked, harsh and final. “Don’t.”
He turned away, grabbing his shirt from the floor in a single, jerky movement. He didn’t even put it on—just balled it in his fist and stalked out of the bedroom.
“Please just let me explain?—”
“There’s nothing to explain,” he bit out, jamming his feet into his shoes. “You already did.”
He grabbed some things from the coffee table, then slammed open the kitchen door so loud the cats scattered.
I stood there, frozen, heart pounding. What the hell could I say?
He didn’t look back.
Didn’t slam the door again, but shut it hard enough to shake the glass in its frame.
And then there was nothing but silence.
Silence and the sick, yawning weight of everything I couldn’t undo.