Chapter 5 Gabe #2
I take care of the condom quickly, toss it, then grab a clean towel from the dresser and come back to the bed.
"Hey," I say quietly. "Come here."
She blinks up at me, eyes heavy, still in that hazy place between pleasure and sleep.
I move slowly, not rushing her, just guiding. She lets me, and that trust does something to me I don't want to look at too closely.
I sit her up and wipe her thighs gently, carefully, more like I'm tending to something precious than cleaning a mess.
Her hand lands on my wrist, fingers curling there.
"You don't have to do that," she whispers.
"I know," I answer. "I want to."
Her throat works once, and I see emotion flash over her face before she can hide it. I pretend not to notice, just keep going, soft and methodical, until she relaxes.
"Can you stay sitting up for a minute?" I ask.
She nods, hair falling around her shoulders, cheeks still pink. I grab one of my old shirts from the drawer and slip it over her head.
It swallows her frame, but the hem catches high on her thighs, and my chest tightens at the sight.
She looks like she belongs here in my clothes and in my bed, and that thought is a problem.
"There," I say. "You're good."
"Debatable," she murmurs, but she smiles.
I tug on sweats, then press a quick kiss to her forehead. "Don't move."
Her brows lift. "Ordering me around already?"
"Get used to it," I say, turning toward the door. "I'll be back in a minute."
She sinks back against the pillows, still blinking unhurriedly. "You said that earlier and you came back with beer."
"Upgrading the offering this time."
I leave the bedroom and move through the dark hallway on autopilot, going down the stairs and into the kitchen.
Opening the fridge, I see a box of brownies I got from a local baker yesterday. They were delicious, perfectly chocolatey with a hint of nutmeg. I heat one up, letting the chocolate go warm and soft, then put milk in a small pan on the stove.
Hot chocolate. Old habit from cold nights and mess tents when the younger guys needed something that wasn't caffeine and adrenaline.
Never thought I'd be making it for my best friend's daughter after fucking her into the mattress.
My stomach tightens at the thought, but my hands keep working. Cocoa, sugar, a pinch of salt, whisking until the smell fills the small kitchen.
It makes the whole thing feel domestic in a way I have no right to want.
When everything's ready, I load it onto a tray like an idiot trying to be thoughtful.
Brownie on a plate.
Steaming mug.
Napkin I don't actually need to add but do anyway.
Back upstairs, the bedroom is half-lit and the bedside lamp casts a warm pool over the bed.
She hasn't moved much.
She's sitting half up against the headboard, knees bent under my shirt, watching the doorway like she wasn't sure I meant it when I said I'd come back.
The look that crosses her face when she sees the tray hits me harder than I expect.
"You weren't kidding," she says softly. "Upgraded offering."
I set the tray on the nightstand and hand her the mug. "Careful. It's hot."
She blows on it and takes a tentative sip. Her eyes flutter shut. "Oh, my God. That's… really good."
I tear the brownie in half and hold a piece out to her. "Try this with it."
She takes it from my fingers, lips brushing my knuckles, and my body reacts like we didn't just spend an hour wringing each other out.
She chews, then chases it with another sip. Her eyes gloss, and at first I think she's tired. Then I see the way her mouth trembles.
"Lena," I say quietly. "Talk to me."
She swallows hard, setting the mug down before it spills. Her hands twist in the blanket bunched at her waist.
Her voice, when it comes, is thin around the edges. "I don't remember the last time I felt… cared for," she says. "Not like that. Not in bed. Not out of it."
Something heavy settles behind my ribs. "I've always felt exposed," she continues, eyes fixed on the brownie in her palm.
"Like everyone is watching and judging how I take up space.
Old boyfriends, strangers at the gym, aunties at family functions.
It's either ‘you've got such a pretty face' or ‘you'd be amazing if you just lost a little.
'" She lets out a humorless little breath.
"You have no idea what it's like to feel like a ‘before’ picture every time you walk into a room. "
I don't speak. I just sit there on the edge of the bed and listen.
"I stopped going to the gym because my last boyfriend turned it into a scorecard," she says. "He made everything about numbers and mistakes and how I could be if I just tried harder. And tonight, you…"
She trails off. I prompt gently, "I what?"
She looks up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. "You touched me like there was nothing to fix or I wasn't too much. Like you liked that there was a lot of me to hold on to."
I feel my throat go tight. "Lena," I say, my voice lower than before. "Look at me."
She already is, but she lifts her chin anyway. "You are not a before picture," I tell her. "You are the whole story. You understand me?"
Her eyes overflow. A tear spills down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb, then leave my hand cupping her face.
"You've got curves that make a man want to thank whoever's in charge," I say.
"If anyone made you feel like you had to shrink to be worth loving, they were wrong. Not confused. Wrong."
She lets out a soft, hitched sound and leans into my palm. "Own it," I say. "Own every inch of what you've got. It's not a flaw. It's a damn privilege to touch."
That finally breaks something loose. The tears come steady now, silent at first, then shaking.
I set the tray fully aside and pull her in.
She folds into my chest, fists bunching in my shirt, crying in that quiet way people do when they're too used to holding it in.
I wrap my arms around her and just hold her.
No speeches. No distractions.
Just warmth and weight and a heartbeat under her ear. "It's okay," I murmur when her breathing stutters. "Let it out. You're safe here."
She cries herself down to soft little hiccups, then exhaustion creeps in. Her body gets heavier against mine, her eyelids drooping with each blink. "You should sleep," I say.
"I'll get crumbs on your sheets," she mumbles, words already blurred.
"I'll survive."
She gives a tiny laugh and curls closer. Within minutes, her breathing evens out. Out cold. Trusting. Completely unguarded.
That's when the guilt really kicks in.
I ease her onto her side and lie down behind her, one arm draped carefully over her waist.
She fits there too well.
Her hair smells like whatever she used in the shower.
Her body is warm and soft against mine, and every cell in me wants to stay right here.
You idiot, I think. She's Daniel's daughter. She's too young for the kind of life you live. You know better than this.
But my hand stays where it is, fingers resting against the curve of her stomach.
I stare at the ceiling and let the war inside my head run loudly until sleep finally drags me under.
The morning comes too early.
My body wakes up before my mind does, and for two stolen seconds, everything feels right.
A warm bed. A beautiful woman within reach.
Then the memories line up, and my stomach twists.
Lena is still asleep, turned toward me, hair a tangle over the pillow, my shirt riding up her thigh.
She looks younger like this.
I can't be the man who takes advantage of that.
Careful not to wake her, I slide out of bed.
It takes effort to peel my gaze away from the way she's curled around my pillow.
I pull on sweats and a T-shirt, then head downstairs.
On the counter, I set up coffee. I place the mug on a small tray, add one of the leftover brownies, and find a pen and notepad.
The words don't come easily, but I force them anyway.
Lena,
Didn't want to wake you. I needed to step out for a bit and clear my head. Coffee's how you like it. Take your time this morning. No rush to leave. We can talk when I'm back.
G.
I carry the tray upstairs and set it on the nightstand where she'll see it first thing. I look at her one last time.
Part of me wants to crawl back into bed and forget everything outside this room exists.
Instead I back away quietly and slip out. I spend the next hour driving without direction, windows cracked, mind running through every version of the conversation I need to have with her.
The one where I tell her I can't promise her stability.
The one where I admit I crossed a line I shouldn't have.
The one where I try to be decent without scorching what we shared.
By the time I walk back into the house, I've rehearsed a dozen angles and liked none of them.
The bedroom is empty.
The sheets are pulled up. The coffee and the brownie are both intact, but the note is gone.
A small, tight ache blooms in my chest.
I stand there in the doorway for a long moment, staring at the neat bed where there should be a messy woman in my shirt, and I know exactly what's happened.
She took the hint I didn't have the courage to put into words.
And she's gone.