Chapter Twenty-Five
Clay
She’d started to yawn before we even finished talking. It was late, and I know we were both exhausted. She needed sleep before another round of apologies, so I gave her one of my shirts and a pair of athletic shorts.
She took both of them but only had on the shirt when she climbed into bed beside me. I didn’t say a word, and neither did she. Instead, she just curled into my side like it was the most natural thing in the world. Within minutes, she was asleep. Her breath was soft and even against my chest.
I should’ve felt guilty for keeping her up this late after a long shift that probably ran her into the ground.
And I did. But I wasn’t going to feel bad about this—the weight of her tucked against me, the sound of her breathing filling the quiet.
For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel like it was coming apart.
Morning light cuts through the blinds in uneven lines. The place still looks half-lived-in with boxes stacked by the wall, a couch that hasn’t seen much use, blank walls staring back.
But this morning, it all feels different.
The air smells like burnt coffee, which is my fault because I still can’t figure out the damn machine, but it mixes with the scent of her perfume. I can still smell traces of her on my skin and on the pillow where she slept.
Tessa’s here.
She’s curled into the far corner of the couch, legs tucked under her, one of my Kolmont travel mugs cupped in her hands. Her hair’s a little wild, her face still soft from sleep, and she hasn’t bothered to fix it. Somehow, that’s what gets me. The raw and unfiltered version of her.
I stand there for a second, hands shoved into my sweats, just watching.
The slow rise and fall of her shoulders.
The way her lips press to the rim of the mug.
Having her here, in my space, comforts me in a way that should scare the hell out of me.
Because it’s exactly what I keep telling myself I can’t have.
Still, I give in. I always do with her.
I drop down beside her slowly, afraid that if I move too fast, she’ll vanish.
My knee brushes hers, and unlike yesterday, when I would touch her, she doesn’t pull away.
She leans into me, and I move my arm to rest along the back of the couch beside her, my thumb slowly brushing along her shoulder through the soft cotton of my shirt.
She looks over at me then, and that look nearly undoes me. Like she’s trying to figure out which version of me she woke up to. The one who walked away. Or the one who stayed.
I force my mouth into a crooked grin. “Sorry, the coffee tastes like shit,” I rasp.
Her lips twitch, fighting a smile. “I’ve had worse,” she says, and it’s enough to ease something tight in my chest.
I want to tell her everything. That last night wasn’t a mistake.
That every second I spent away from her felt like skating through overtime on a torn ACL.
It was a pain I couldn’t bear, and nothing I did would make it stop.
I wanted to tell her how I’d trade every shot at redemption if it meant keeping her right here.
But I don’t. Not yet. So I just slide my hand around her, pull her closer to my side, and breathe her in. She rests her head against my shoulder, and I take a deep breath, releasing a weight on my chest I hadn’t realized was there.
“I get why you want to wait,” she says, her voice soft but sure. “Until you know about the job.”
My heart stutters. She’s turned toward me now, leaning forward to set her mug on the coffee table, tucking her knee beneath her.
“You don’t want anything to risk it,” she continues. “And I don’t want to be the reason someone questions whether you’re deserving of the opportunity or not. Not when you’ve worked this hard to get here.”
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off gently. “It’s okay, Clay. Really.” She lets out a breath that trembles at the edges. “This way, we get to figure things out without everyone else in the way. No cameras. No family. No one to tell us how wrong or complicated this is.”
I study her. She’s relaxed, her voice calm, but I can see the flicker of nerves underneath. It’s the same fear I’ve been carrying.
“I hate that I’m asking you to wait for me,” I admit quietly. “That I’m asking you to keep this quiet like it’s something to hide.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not asking me to hide. You’re asking for time.” Her lips curve. “And maybe we both need that.”
The words settle between us.
I nod, throat tight. “I’m sorry, Tess. For last night and for everything before it, too. I lost control, again. I seem to do that when it comes to you. I didn’t bring you here to hook up. I don’t want you to think that’s all this has ever been to me.”
“I know,” she says softly.
“I just…” I search for air that doesn’t scrape going in. “I don’t want to lose you and my career in the same breath. I can’t.”
Her gaze softens. “Then don’t.”
It’s the simplest thing she’s ever said to me, and somehow it hits harder than every fight and every apology before it.
We sit there for a while, the world holding its breath around us. Her fingers find mine, and somehow, that’s enough. Maybe this isn’t the end of what we broke. Perhaps it’s the beginning of how we learn to fix it.
But her voice breaks the calm, sharp enough to cut through the air between us.
“Promise me something, Clay.”
My stomach knots before she even finishes.
“When you find out about the job,” she says, her eyes locked on mine.
“When it’s official… we move forward. Together.
No more hiding.” She swallows hard, her voice soft but sure.
“I’m fine keeping this private for now, but I won’t be your secret.
Not from our families. Not from the people who matter. ”
She pauses, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket draped across her lap. “You can ask me to wait. You can ask me to trust you. But when that day comes, I need you to mean it. I need to know you’ll stand beside me, not behind closed doors.”
I draw a slow breath, my chest tight. “I can’t promise it won’t get ugly,” I say, voice rough. “The press, they’re waiting for me to screw up. To give them another headline. I don’t know how to protect you from that. Half the time, I can barely protect myself.”
Her eyes soften, but she doesn’t look away.
I lean in, close enough that our foreheads almost touch.
“But I don’t want to hide you. Not anymore.
Not when the only thing that’s kept me standing since Christmas is you.
” My voice drops. “If that costs me everything else… fine. I’ll take it.
But I need you to know… it’s not nothing to me. You’re not nothing to me.”
The air vibrates between us. She blinks, fighting tears, then lifts her hand and presses it to my chest, right over my heart.
“I don’t need perfect, Clay,” she whispers. “I don’t even need easy. I just need real. As long as you can give me that, I don’t care about everything else. As long as I have you by my side, we can get through anything.”
It feels like my ribs crack under her touch.
“I promise I’ll be here through it all,” she murmurs. “But only if you mean it. I need you to promise me no more secrets and no more disappearing. If I’m in this with you, I need you in it the same way.”
My throat closes. I cover her hand with mine, pressing it harder against my chest, like I can anchor her there.
“I’m in.” I pause, searching for the words that don’t sound like promises I’ve broken before. “I’m making that promise because I know you need to hear it, but mark my words, I’m going to earn it too. Every day. Until you never have to question where I stand or what you mean to me.”
Something in her softens then. Not all the way. She’s still guarded, but the wall she’s kept between us cracks just enough to let me see her. Truly see her.
When I lean in, she doesn’t pull away. She meets me halfway, and the second our mouths touch, the noise in my head goes quiet. It’s not the wild, frantic kind of kiss we’ve shared before. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a vow all at once.
My hand slides up her neck, my thumb tracing her jaw as she breathes against my lips. She trembles, just barely, and I swear I feel her heartbreak and hope collide right there between us.
When she finally pulls back, her forehead rests against mine, and our breaths mingle in the space that still feels charged and fragile.
In that quiet, I know I’d spend the rest of my life trying to deserve this.