Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
CHRISTINE
“Maybe this was a bad idea,” I whisper.
Fletcher lays a hand on my arm as Jacks pauses a few steps into the parking lot, craning her head to take in the structure in front of us.
The Shoreline Stage glows against the night sky backdrop as waves crash in the distance. String lights wind around their outdoor seating area, along with warm yellow lanterns on either side of the entrance.
I’ve only been here once—with Julian, unfortunately—and he hated it, so we never came back.
But I loved it.
He said it was too small, too cramped, the food too ordinary .
But I found it cozy, personable, and charmingly eclectic. None of the furniture matches, the walls are covered in rich velvet tapestries, and between the roaring fireplace in the corner and the mood lighting from the lanterns in the center of each table, it makes the whole place feel homey, welcoming.
Then there’s the stage in the back. Sometimes there’s live music, poetry readings, stand-up comedy—a different theme for each night of the week.
The couple who owns it does the cooking themselves, and they change the menu on a monthly basis.
I gave Fletcher and Jacks a brief rundown of the place on the drive here, and she hadn’t said anything…just like she’s not saying anything now. In fact, she’s been quiet since she got back from the test. Though, to be fair, I’d probably be pretty exhausted and nonverbal after eight straight hours of test-taking too. I didn’t take it all in one day like she did.
Finally, she asks, “What night is it?” She looks at me over her shoulder. “For the theme—what is it tonight?”
“Comedy.”
She turns back to the restaurant, but I think she just smiled.
She shrugs and heads for the front door. “Cool.”
I raise my eyebrows and meet Fletcher’s eyes.
Cool , he mouths and gives me a thumbs-up.
It’s crowded when we step inside, nearly every table filled, and the waiting area is standing room only. Fletch heads to the hostess to give her our reservation—which I put under his name instead of mine to avoid any potential…hiccups. Luckily his height makes him easy to keep track of in the crowd. He gestures for us to follow as the waitress collects the menus, and as I pass, his fingers gently tug on my wrist, then slide down and weave through mine.
I tense, hyperaware of every eye in the room, though none seem to be on us. Not that there’s much to see in the first place, but despite how fourth grade it would be, I wouldn’t put handholding above the Sweetspire rumor mill these days. Then I remember this isn’t a secret anymore.
I’m not willing for this to be a secret anymore.
He loosens his grip like he can sense my discomfort and is meaning to let go, but I tighten my fingers around his before he can.
He looks so goddamn handsome in the dim light—his skin tanned from working on a house in the sun with his dad all day, his hair lightly tousled, his button-down open at the collar, exposing the long column of his throat.
We end up at a booth in the back corner, and we all slide together on one side so we can see the stage, with Fletcher in the middle.
But even once we’re sitting, he doesn’t let go of my hand.
Jacks flips through the menu while she chews on her thumbnail. Her leg bounces restlessly beneath the table.
“You guys want an appetizer?” asks Fletcher. “Or skip that so we have room for dessert?”
My eyebrows inch up as I spy the chocolate cake at the bottom of the menu.
Fletcher leans over to Jacks and murmurs under his breath, “Get whatever you want. It’s on me.”
That, at least, makes her leg stop.
The waitress comes around for our drink order, and I glance at the empty stage, then the time.
“I think the show’s supposed to start in fifteen minutes.” I lower my voice and lean closer. “Don’t get your hopes up too high though. There’s no cover charge, and it’s mostly an open mic night for locals, so this could be really bad.”
Jacks snorts and nudges Fletcher in the ribs. “You should go up there.”
He groans and rubs a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let me live that down.”
“Live what down?”
Jacks turns to Fletcher with her eyebrows raised, waiting.
He sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I might have done a stand-up comedy act for our school talent show when I was ten. Which you ”—he turns to Jacks—“shouldn’t even remember! You were like five!”
She taps her temple. “I remember it all .”
“Please tell me you remember some of your jokes,” I say.
He quickly shakes his head. “Absolutely not. You couldn’t waterboard them out of me.”
I try to picture a younger Fletcher like that—on stage, under the lights, the center of attention.
I can’t.
“I never took you for a performer.”
He glances at me sideways. “Oh, I learned my lesson. I never did it again.”
“You might as well tell me the jokes. You know I’m just going to get them out of Jacks later.”
Jacks nods seriously. “It’s true.”
I smile and thank the waitress as she circles back with our drinks. By the time she disappears to put in our order, Jacks’s mood has shifted again. She’s slumped against the booth now, eyes glued to her phone screen.
“So how long until you get your scores and everything?” asks Fletcher as he sips his beer.
It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting, but her cheeks look a little red. “Um.” She sits up straight and puts her phone away. “I have them now, actually.”
“What?” Fletcher puts the cup down. “Why didn’t you say!”
Jacks’s eyes flick from him to me, but she focuses on her hands as she says, “Because I didn’t pass.”
“Oh—I—well, that’s all right.” Fletcher sets a hand on her shoulder and hurries to comfort her, but I can’t help but cock my head.
Didn’t pass?
There were a few sections she was stronger in than others for sure. And the tests vary—it’s never exactly like the practice tests.
But she wasn’t just passing during our study sessions. She was college level in most things, scoring even high enough to qualify for college credits.
And not just once.
Every time. Every practice test.
With how well she was doing, she could’ve skipped a fourth of the questions and still have been fine. She was a million times more prepared than I was.
The chance of her not passing didn’t even occur to me. Didn’t seem possible.
I blink back to the table.
“You know what? No one passes it the first time,” Fletcher is saying. “So this is basically a rite of passage.”
Jacks quirks an unconvinced eyebrow, then turns to me. “How many tries did it take you to pass?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“The point is,” says Fletcher, “you can take it as many times as you need to, and now that you’ve got one under your belt, you know better what to expect. Maybe we rushed into this one. You only really studied for a week or so. Maybe you need more time than that.”
She relaxes a bit, her smile more genuine now. “Thanks, Fletch. I’m sorry—you guys tried to do all this to celebrate, and I…”
“We’re celebrating because you’re my sister, and I’m happy to have you around again.” He throws an arm around her shoulders and tugs her into a headlock until she bats him away, laughing.
When he looks up, grinning and so fucking happy and at ease, I force myself to smile back.
The comedians are, indeed, horrible. But in a so bad it’s fun kind of way, and the food is as good as I remembered. And no meal can be that bad if it ends with chocolate cake.
On the drive home, Jacks is in the best mood I’ve seen from her yet. Very noticeably so. Like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.
A weight that has now, apparently, been transferred to mine.
Because try as I may, I can’t shake this feeling that something is off.
But as Jacks takes off inside when we reach Fletcher’s house, it’s clear he doesn’t feel it too. He opens my door and braces his arms on the car’s frame overhead.
“Still up for staying here tonight?” he murmurs.
It was something we’d agreed on earlier since Casey is with Julian—I even packed an overnight bag and a certain adult accessory in anticipation—but now his smile is full of promises I don’t know that I can muster the mood for anymore. Not with my stomach in knots like this.
“I don’t know…”
“I won’t push you on it. Only if you want to.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course I want to.”
Staying here sounds much more appealing than going back to that empty, everything-is-falling-apart house right now. I bite my lip. I don’t know why something about it feels like it might be…inappropriate. Jacks is eighteen, and his sister—not his kid—but still. This is new territory, and I’m not quite sure how I’m supposed to navigate it.
“Stay. Please.”
I sigh like this is a major inconvenience. But before I can say anything else, he pulls me from the car, throws me over his shoulder, and fireman-carries me toward the door.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Put me down!”
Doing no such thing, he pushes into the house and heads straight for the stairs.
To my mortification, Jacks is lingering in the kitchen. My face burns as we pass her, and I offer an awkward wave as I dangle against her brother’s back.
“Night, Jacks!” Fletcher calls as we disappear upstairs.
“Fletcher!” I hiss.
“Almost there,” he says cheerfully as he carries me straight to his bedroom, then deposits me on his bed and hovers over me with a crooked grin.
“Fletcher!” I slap his chest, my eyes darting to the door he left wide open. “We are not ? — ”
He presses his lips to my forehead. “I know. I just wanted that worried look off your face. This one is much more fun.” He kisses me before I can respond, slowly, gently, then tucks my hair behind my ears. “Thank you for helping me with Jacks. Not just tonight. With everything. The studying, talking to her. You have no idea… I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“You would’ve figured it out. There’s a reason you’re the person she went to when she needed help.”
He ducks his head, never able to take a compliment, and pushes to his feet. “Let me find you something to sleep in.”
He rifles through his drawers, carefully selecting what to give me. And I wish I could just sit here and gawk at how good he looks and how good it feels to be here right now, but that gnawing feeling is still in the pit of my stomach.
He sets my clothes on the bed, and I drift to the other side of the room and quietly close the door.
I open and close my mouth at least three times before I manage to get the words out. “Can I talk to you about something?”
Fletcher sets his watch on the nightstand and peers up at me. “Of course.”
I tuck one leg under myself as I sit on the foot of the bed again, weighing my words, but there’s no getting around what I mean.
“What is it?” he presses.
“Jacks failing the GED test…”
“Oh.” He sighs and comes to sit beside me. “Look, that’s not your fault, at all ?—”
“No, I don’t mean…” I hold up a hand to stop him as I fight to get the words out. “I don’t think her failing was…an accident.” I stare at my hands in my lap before peeling my gaze up to meet his.
His brow furrows as he searches my face. “You think she failed on purpose.”
It doesn’t sound like a question, but I nod anyway.
“Just listen. I studied with her. I quizzed her. I graded her practice tests. She was ready for that test. She was ready to ace it. She’s smart. The margin that she failed by…it’s like someone else entirely took it. It doesn’t make any sense.”
The lines in his forehead deepen as he shakes his head. “I—well, people have test anxiety, right? Maybe it was the pressure.”
I chew on my lip. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up.
And maybe I’m wrong.
“Why would she do that? Fail on purpose?” he continues.
I shrug. That I don’t have the answer to.
“People self-sabotage for all sorts of reasons. Maybe she’s just afraid of not knowing what’s next if she did pass,” I murmur. “You know—just forget I said anything?—”
“No.” He rests his hand on my leg. “I believe you. If you think something’s off here, I believe you.”
The relief from hearing those words is unexpected and immediate. “Thank you,” I whisper and lay my hand over his. He immediately flips his over to link our fingers together. “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay here tonight?”
His hand tightens around mine. “I will be absolutely heartbroken if you don’t.”
I smirk and roll my eyes.
“How are you feeling about Casey being with his dad?”
“I hate it,” I admit on a pitiful little laugh. “I miss him. I’m worried Julian’s not being nice to him. And I’m trying not to hover and call every five minutes.”
He smiles and runs his thumb along the back of my hand. “He’s a good kid. I miss him too.”
I can tell he means it—means everything he says, really. There’s something so earnest about him, the conviction in his voice, the openness in his eyes. Not someone saying what they think they’re supposed to, or what’ll get other people to like them. Maybe spending so much time around Julian left me jaded—always searching for that hollow kind of charisma, that glint in someone’s eye that signals an ulterior motive.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” he murmurs.
I smile and squeeze his fingers. “That you’re a good person.”
His gaze drops to my lips, and when his eyes meet mine again, there’s a question in them.
To answer, I lean in first. And my lips just brush his when?—
“If I’m going to need earplugs tonight, can you at least give me a heads-up!” Jacks shouts from down the hall.
I laugh breathlessly and press my forehead to his shoulder instead. His chest rises and falls as he lets out a deep breath, and he rubs his hand along my back.
“Let’s go to bed.”
Fletcher’s bed is even more comfortable than the one in his guest room. Maybe I’m just exhausted, but I pass out almost immediately. At some point in the night, I roll over, half awake, and reach for Fletcher’s side of the bed, but it’s cold.
I must fall back asleep because the next thing I know, the bed shifts, and I feel the warmth of his body curl against my back. Sighing, I lean into him, and his arm winds around my waist. When his face presses against the crook of my neck, I can feel him smile against my skin.
“You smell so good,” he murmurs in a voice so low it raises the hairs on my arms.
I nestle farther into his chest. The muscles in his arms flex as they tighten around me, and I let out another involuntary sigh, all too aware of every point of contact between us—his legs tangled with mine, his hips flush against my ass, his lips lightly trailing along the back of my neck.
My head falls back against his shoulder as his hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt and his fingers explore my stomach. I can’t think when he touches me like this. I just need more, more . His fingers drift higher, until his knuckles skim the undersides of my breasts, and my breath hitches. But he stops there, then trails them back down, following the curve of my waist until he reaches my hips, then starts up again.
I skim my fingertips along his thigh, and when he hums low in his chest, I feel the vibrations against my back.
He seems perfectly content to torture me like this all morning, so taking matters into my own hands, I turn enough to grab his chin and pull his mouth down to mine.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need any more convincing than that. He grabs the back of my head as his tongue delves into my mouth. I melt into the bed as he rolls himself on top of me and nudges my legs open with his knee. I run my hands up his chest before letting them weave into his hair, my lips never breaking from his. When he rolls his hips against mine, I moan against his mouth.
“Shh.” His lips curl into a smile. “Can you keep quiet for me?”
My breath hitches as reality trickles in—that nothing but a thin wall separates us from Jacks right now. His fingers hook beneath the waistband of my sweatpants before I can respond, and he follows them to the edge of the bed as he pulls them down.
“I really can’t make that promise,” I gasp as he lies on his stomach and settles his head between my legs. Then his mouth is on me, and my head falls back with an involuntary moan.
He starts slowly, in a way that has my body going lax against the mattress, and my eyes close at the warmth that floods every inch of my skin. Once my hips start to lift of their own accord, desperate for more friction, he throws one of my legs over his shoulder, wraps his arms around my hips, and presses down on my stomach as his movements shift from exploring to ravaging.
“Fletcher— oh —I can’t—fuck—” I don’t know what I’m saying. I grasp for his arms just for something to hold on to, and he never breaks his pace.
I pant, desperately trying to catch my breath, and prop myself on my elbows to watch. He looks up at me through his lashes, and Jesus Christ, it’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. His eyes hold mine as he leads me straight to the edge at a dizzying, violent speed. I expect for him to ease off, to make me wait for it, but no.
I fall onto my back and grab the other pillow to hold over my face as the orgasm rips through me. I arch off the bed and bite the pillow to quiet the noises trying to claw their way out of my throat. My legs shake as I come down from it, somehow already desperate for another one.
“Fletch,” I say breathlessly as I let the pillow fall to the side.
He presses a gentle kiss to my thigh, my hip, then pauses, his forehead resting against my stomach. I comb my fingers through his hair, and he leans into my touch.
Then I hear the distinct thud of the front door closing downstairs.
My head shoots up.
“Fletch?”
He climbs out of bed and peers out the window that overlooks the front of the house. “It’s just Jacks heading out for a run. She always heads out around this time.”
My face burns. She was awake ? If she heard—well, I think I might just put that pillow right back over my face. Permanently.
He smirks when he turns and sees me stewing in my mortification. “I doubt she heard anything. You were very quiet. I was impressed. Had me second-guessing myself for a minute there.”
I slide my legs over the edge of the bed, and his eyes track the movement.
“How long is she usually gone for?” I murmur.
He swallows hard as I join him by the window and lightly tuck my fingers beneath the waistband of his pants.
“Half an hour.”
“That seems like plenty of time.” Before he can lean in to kiss me, I pull his pants down with me as I lower to my knees.
“Chris,” he breathes.
“Mm?” I hum as I wrap my hand around him.
His eyes flutter shut as if it’s involuntary, but it’s nothing compared to the groan he tries to stifle as I slowly run my tongue along the tip.
“Wait.”
I pause, and there’s a glint in his eyes I can’t quite read.
“Did you bring what I asked you to?”
I bite my lip. “In my purse.”
He goes to where it’s hanging off his desk chair, fishes around, then pulls out the little pink vibrator.
“Stay on your knees, but spread your legs,” he says in a low voice.
The soft buzz fills the room as he crouches in front of me and switches it on. Instead of using it himself, he slides it into my hand, then guides it until I’m pressing it to my clit. My breath hitches, and my body jerks.
“Keep it there,” he orders, then rises to his feet.
It’s going to be a whole lot harder to focus on the task at hand now. He brushes my hair back from my face, his touch light as I grip his dick with my other hand and ease the tip between my lips.
His abs flex, and he lets out a harsh breath as I work him slowly, gently, the opposite of what I know he’s desperate for. But he doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t guide my head. He just swallows hard and watches me, rapt.
I try to keep a steady pace, I do, but it’s hard when my body is shaking and I’m moaning around him. I was intending to take some of the control back here, but now I am a panting, quivering mess at his feet. I know from experience this toy can get me there in under sixty seconds, and we are already well past that. I ease it away, my heart hammering in my chest.
“I don’t think so.” Fletcher crouches down again, his hand covering mine, and brings the vibrator back to my clit. He holds my eyes as he grinds it against me over and over, and I cry out, every cell in my body begging for release.
He pulls it away abruptly, and I sag forward, panting and desperately needing relief. He gives me a second to catch my breath before returning it to its original position. I gasp, but manage to keep it there as he stands and waits for me to continue.
I take him deeper into my mouth, hoping the distraction will help me hold out. If anything, it just turns me on more , especially when I hear the labored way he’s breathing above me. His fingers weave in my hair, though his touch is gentle.
I don’t know if he’s worried about hurting me or what, because I don’t remember him being this careful last time. I pull back, meet his eyes, and open my mouth wide as an invitation.
His eyelids fall to half mast, and his fingers tighten slightly in my hair.
“Let me know if I go too far,” he murmurs, then slides his dick into my mouth.
I keep my eyes locked on his as he presses inside inch by inch, testing, waiting to see my reaction. I gag when he hits the back of my throat, and he starts to pull out, but I grab his thigh and yank him toward me.
He curses and shakes his head a little. “More?”
I nod and moan around him.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like You’re going to fucking kill me before pushing deeper into my throat. I dig my fingers into his thigh, holding on as my body fights against the intrusion. He coaxes out a gargled noise with each thrust, and my jaw starts to ache. Of course I remembered his size, but I hadn’t really considered how much harder it would be to take him in my mouth.
My legs tremble, and it takes everything in me to keep the vibrator in place. I can feel how fucking wet I am—feel it dripping down my thighs.
He pulls all the way out, and I gasp in a breath. His brow furrows as he looks down at me and strokes my hair, his chest rising and falling rapidly with his breath.
“You okay?”
I nod quickly, but my head falls back of its own volition with a breathless moan.
He drops to his knees, his hand layering over mine and shaking the toy against me as if I fucking need any more stimulation down there.
“Fuck—Fletch—I can’t?—”
“I know.” He grabs my jaw and crushes his lips to mine as the orgasm tears through me—abrupt and explosive, leaving me completely undone. I feel his lips curl into a smile as he kisses me, then finally, mercifully , lets me drop the toy.
The break is short-lived.
Because then he’s scooping me up and positioning me on the bed. He settles himself between my thighs on his knees and rolls a condom onto himself.
He pauses as he leans over me, his eyes searching my face in question. To answer, I skim my hands up his arms, his chest, his neck, then draw his mouth to mine.
He pushes inside an inch, then another. My head falls back on a moan, and I cling to his shoulders as he slides the rest of the way in.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, then grabs both of my hands in his, links our fingers together, and presses them to the mattress over my head.
And this—this is not what I’d been expecting. This gentle, slow roll of his hips against mine, filling me all the way, then almost leaving me completely. He stares into my eyes, so close we share the same breath, but neither of us speaks. It’s a delicious, sweet agony of its own. The eye contact is almost too much, but I can’t look away.
I lock my ankles around the backs of his thighs as if I can pull him in deeper even though there is no deeper.
“This time when I make you come, you’re going to look me in the eye,” he whispers.
I don’t blink. I can barely breathe.
I nod.
I feel like I shouldn’t even be able to do it again after the last one, but I’m already close. My hips rock up against him involuntarily, matching his pace. His forehead presses to mine, and I can feel his every muscle tensing around me.
My breaths turn into pants, into moans.
And the sounds he makes. It’s nearly enough to push me over the edge alone.
But is that—are those footsteps on the stairs?
He must notice it at the same time because we both freeze.
I blink up at him, breathless. “You said thirty?—”
He flattens his lips into a tight line and shakes his head. “She’s back early.”
I slump against the pillow, defeated, but he doesn’t move. “Fletch…”
“Shh.” He brings his mouth to mine.
He keeps kissing me, and I can’t help it—my desperately horny, traitorous body melts into it—and slowly, his hips start to move against mine again.
“Fletcher,” I manage between kisses.
“She’ll get in the shower in a minute,” he breathes.
Sure enough, the bathroom door shuts down the hall, followed by the sound of the water turning on.
I giggle as he runs his nose along the side of my throat. I feel like a fucking teenager sneaking around. Or, what I imagine that would’ve been like, seeing as my mother couldn’t have cared less about what I got up to.
He grins down at me, but it softens into a smile as he meets my eyes. “I love your laugh.”
I smile back, but falter at the words on the tip of my tongue. He doesn’t seem to notice though, because he resumes his earlier pace, his hands tightening around mine.
My breaths quicken as the tension in my body winds tighter, but those three unspoken words linger in the back of my mind. The impulse to say them came out of nowhere. It was just a knee jerk response, right? Not?—
My eyes roll back as he thrusts into me harder, and it forces that line of thinking away.
“Please don’t stop,” I gasp. “Fuck, Fletcher, please .”
“Come on, Chris. I need at least one more. Give it to me.”
His hands tighten around mine, and I have no choice. The orgasm rolls over my body, stealing my breath and my voice.
“Eyes on me,” he orders through his teeth.
I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them.
They fly open and lock on his staring down at me. He keeps the same pace until the last of it ebbs away and I go limp against the bed.
He rolls off of me, and my head whips up. Did he even finish? But then he’s propping me on my side and sliding in behind me.
Oh God, more?
I strain my ear—the shower is still running.
One hand wedges beneath me and winds around my breasts, holding me to his chest. The other grips my thigh as he pulls my leg up and repositions himself.
“You can lean back on me,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
I’m too exhausted to do anything else at this point. My head falls against his shoulder as he slides his length along my pussy a few times before pushing inside.
“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he grits out through his teeth.
I think I’ve lost the ability to speak, so I shake my head and moan as I reach around for any part of him I can get my hands on—behind his neck and his wrist.
His pace is faster this time, harder. Each thrust has me gasping for air.
“Think you’ve got one more for me?”
I let out a breathy laugh because I have no fucking idea. I’m a little delirious and just hanging on for dear life.
“You already had enough?”
I immediately shake my head, because I might be out of my mind, but God, I don’t want him to stop.
“I want…you to…come,” I gasp.
He grabs my face and crushes his lips to mine, his thrusts hitting harder, deeper. I moan against his mouth.
“I wish you could see yourself like this, Chris,” he breathes. “God, look at you.”
His movements get increasingly jerky, his muscles tensing beneath my hands. I didn’t think I’d come again too, but the fucking sounds he makes push me right over the edge with him.
I’m left shaking and gasping and like fucking putty in his hands, but he doesn’t let me go. He holds me tightly against his chest, breathing hard, his forehead coming to press against my temple.
Distantly, I register the sound of the shower shutting off. We both laugh a little breathlessly, but even once several minutes pass, neither of us moves.
“Well, shit,” I whisper.
“What?”
“I was kind of hoping the first time was a fluke, how good it was.”
He squeezes me closer. “And was it? A fluke?”
I laugh and shake my head. “God, you even upped your game this time.”
I feel his smile against my neck. I start to disentangle myself to go clean up in the bathroom but pause. He falls onto his back with a sigh, and I roll over and brace my arms against his chest so I look down at him.
“Fletch?”
He hums, still smiling with his eyes closed.
Because as good of a job as he just did at distracting me, it all comes rushing back now—the empty side of the bed, the covers pushed back, the door slightly ajar.
I hadn’t checked the time, but I’d be willing to guess it was sometime around 4:30 AM.
Just like the last time I was here. Just like that night in the hotel.
I study his face, the bags beneath his eyes dark despite the happiness currently softening his features.
“Talk to me about this morning,” I murmur.
His eyes snap open, and immediately, there’s a wall over them. He opens his mouth, already poised to brush it off.
“Don’t tell me you’re an early riser or it’s nothing. Talk to me . ”
He sighs and rubs his eyes.
But he says nothing.
I prop my chin on my arms. “Your mom told me about the nightmares.”
He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, something between a sigh and a laugh coming out. “Of course she did.”
“She’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. You’re having these every night, aren’t you?”
I wait for him to brush it off again, to deflect, but after a few moments of silence, he gives a small nod.
“And they’re always the same?” I try.
Another nod.
I push the hair from his face. Finally, he meets my eyes. And the pain behind them cuts right through me. This is more than a couple of bad dreams. This is something big, something heavy, that he’s been carrying around. For a long time, it seems.
“Fletch.” I prop myself up so my face hovers over his. “Talk to me. Please.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t.” And the way his voice breaks around the words kills me.
I run my fingers through his hair again. “You can.”
Silence falls around us for several long moments. Long enough that I wonder if pushing him right now is doing more harm than good. But then so quietly I almost don’t hear it, he says, “There was a fire.”
I stay completely still, as if any sound or movement will make him stop.
“At my foster house when I was thirteen. There were five kids there, including me. I was the oldest. It was in the middle of the night, and it was already bad by the time I woke up. Both of the adults died.”
Both of the adults . Interesting that he doesn’t refer to them as parents, but that detail’s not important now.
“You were thirteen,” I repeat. The age he said he was when he ran off before coming here. “You left after that fire.”
He nods.
“And that was the house you lived in with Jacks,” I realize.
He nods again.
“But you were having these nightmares even before she showed up, right? So that’s not what triggered them.”
Another nod.
“I don’t know what causes them,” he murmurs. “I’ve gone years without having them. Sometimes it’s just every once in a while. Sometimes…”
“It’s every night. How long has it been going on this time?”
He shrugs and lets out a long breath, his gaze focused on the ceiling. “I’ve lost track. Since before we met.”
“Fletch,” I breathe.
His brow furrows. “It doesn’t usually…they don’t usually last this long.”
“Have you ever talked to anyone about them? Like a doctor?”
“My parents put me in therapy for a bit when I was a kid, but it never helped with them.”
“And the dreams are always the same? Always of that night?”
He nods.
I run my thumb along his cheek, and he leans into my touch. “I’m sorry.” The words sound even lamer aloud than I thought they would, but I don’t know what to say, how to help. “If you ever want to talk about it more, I want you to know that I’m here.”
He smiles a little.
“And coming from someone with no background on the topic at all, it sounds to me like your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”
He lays his hand over mine on his face. “What do you mean?”
I shrug. “Our brains don’t ever do something to hurt us. At least, that’s not the intent. It always serves some kind of biological purpose—it’s trying to fulfill a need. So maybe the dreams are trying to tell you something.”
Finally, some of the tension eases from his forehead, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “You’re too smart for me. Maybe you’re right.”
“But it could also be a perfectly reasonable trauma response to something terrible that happened to you,” I rush to get out, realizing how insensitive that may have come across. “So don’t listen to me.”
“Don’t do that.” He tightens his hand around mine before I can pull away. “I love listening to you.”
My brain goes blank for a moment. That word again. I plant a quick kiss on his cheek before pushing myself out of bed. “Come on. Get yourself decent and meet me downstairs.”
“Oh?” he asks on a laugh.
After pulling myself together in the bathroom and throwing on a pair of Fletcher’s sweats, I make my way to the kitchen. The stairs creak as he follows me down, and I glance over my shoulder as he rounds the corner.
“You. Sit.”
He raises his eyebrows at me in disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I jut my chin at the barstool and reach for the fridge.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Wooing you with my cooking skills, obviously.”
He watches in amusement as I hunt through his cabinets for a pan. “Do you want some help?”
Finally, I find the right one and straighten a little too quickly in my excitement. My head hits the inside of the cabinet with a dull thunk.
“Chris—”
“No. You always do it. So just go sit over there and let me make my boyfriend breakfast for once, okay?”
I compile my finds on the counter—eggs and bread. I can handle eggs and toast—but turn when I realize how uncharacteristically quiet he’s being now.
He’s sitting on a barstool, arms crossed over his chest and watching me with a soft smile.
“What?” I demand.
He shakes his head, and his eyes trace over every detail of my face. Quietly, he murmurs, “I like hearing you call me your boyfriend. And I like having you stay over, that’s all.”
I smirk, my face heating a bit. “That’s just because you haven’t tasted my eggs yet.”
“Please tell me you guys aren’t doing it on the kitchen counter right now!” Jacks calls from the stairs.
“The coast is clear,” Fletcher deadpans.
She appears a moment later with wet hair and slides onto the barstool beside Fletcher. “Why are you up so early?”
I meet his eyes, but that haunted look behind them is gone now, replaced by his usual easy smile. “I don’t know. Keep hearing about this early bird getting a worm or something. Thought I’d give it a shot.”