Chapter 18
SOPHIE
Iwoke slowly, like my body was surfacing from deep water.
For a few seconds I didn’t remember where I was.
Just the soft weight of blankets, the faint scent of lavender and something baked, the hush of a house that felt lived in instead of quiet.
Then it all came back in pieces. The bridge.
Wyatt’s arms. The way he had carried me like I was fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
Wyatt.
My chest tightened—not with panic this time, but with something warm and insistent. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, noticing how different I felt. Lighter. Clearer. Like the emotional storm had finally burned itself out and left space behind. Space that was suddenly very aware of the man in the next room. The man who had held my grief, my fear, my shame, and never once flinched.
I wanted him.
Not in a reckless way. In a quiet, steady way that felt terrifying because it wasn’t fueled by adrenaline or chaos. It was fueled by trust.
I slipped out of bed and padded to the bathroom.
Mama P’s place was charming in a way that felt personal—old floral wallpaper, a small vanity with chipped paint, a mirror that had probably seen decades of people trying to collect themselves.
I splashed cool water on my face, smoothed my hair, checked my reflection.
My eyes looked clearer. My skin still a little flushed from sleep. Vulnerable. Real.
Then I stood there, hands braced on the sink, heart thudding.
This could change things.
That thought didn’t scare me. It thrilled me.
When I stepped into the living room, Wyatt was on the sofa, phone in his hand, jaw tight like he’d been thinking about something heavy. He looked up instantly when he saw me, his whole posture shifting.
“You good?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “Better.”
He stood. Immediately. Like he’d been waiting for me to wake up.
The tenderness of it nearly undid me.
“Can you … sit with me?” I asked softly. “In the bedroom.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
Then he nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”
That flicker of hesitation followed us down the hallway like a ghost. Not fear. Something more complicated.
We sat on the edge of the bed, close but not touching. The air felt charged in that quiet, dangerous way where everything mattered.
I folded my hands in my lap, suddenly unsure of myself. “I don’t regret telling you about Jonesy,” I said quickly. “Or the bridge. Or … any of it.”
“You shouldn’t,” he replied. “You were brave.”
“I wasn’t brave,” I said. “I was honest. There’s a difference.”
He looked at me like that mattered.
“I feel closer to you now,” I continued. “Than I ever have. Even when we were kids.”
Something shifted in his expression. Guarded. Careful.
“Sophie …”
I leaned in and kissed him.
Not like before. Not cautious. Not tentative. This time it was deliberate. Soft but certain. My hands lifted to his shoulders, grounding myself in the warmth of him. The kiss wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was a question.
My whole body lit up.
For a moment, he kissed me back.
Just enough to answer.
Then he pulled away.
Not sharply. Not unkindly. But firmly enough that my heart dropped.
“Soph,” he said quietly. “We need to slow down.”
The words stung in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
“Why?” I asked, too quickly.
He stood, running a hand through his short hair like he was trying to find the right words. “Because everything you’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours … because you’re vulnerable. Because I don’t want to take something from you that you might regret later.”
“I’m not fragile,” I said. “I know what I want.”
“I know you do,” he said. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is?” My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady.
He didn’t answer right away.
And that was worse than any explanation.
I stood, too. Moved closer. Placed my hands on his chest like I needed proof that he was real, that this wasn’t rejection, that I hadn’t imagined the intimacy between us.
“What are we doing, Wyatt?” I whispered. “Because I don’t feel like this is just friendship anymore.”
“It isn’t,” he said instantly, shaking his head. “It’s just … complicated.”
I searched his face for reassurance. For desire. For certainty.
I found care. Concern. Control.
I leaned in again, kissed him once more, slower this time, and felt his body respond before his mind shut it down. The heat was there. The want. The connection.
Then he gently took my wrists and lowered my hands.
That small gesture shattered me more than anything else could have.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Tears burned behind my eyes.
“So, you don’t see me like that,” I said.
He closed his eyes briefly. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” I asked. “Because it feels like I crossed a line you never invited me to approach.”
I stepped back.
Shame crept in. Hot and unwelcome. For trying. For wanting. For being bold when maybe he only wanted safe.
I wrapped my arms around myself. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No,” he said quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
It didn’t feel that way.
I thought of the kiss at Dusty’s. The way it had felt like promise. Like safety. Like permission.
Now, it felt like I had misunderstood the language entirely.
“I need to go,” I said softly.
He reached for me. Stopped himself.
“Please, don’t leave like this.”
“I don’t know how else to leave,” I replied.
I grabbed my bag, heart aching in that quiet, humiliating way that came from hoping too much. From believing too deeply. From letting myself think I was wanted in the same way I wanted him.
At the door, I paused. “I’m sorry if I made things awkward. Or rushed something that wasn’t there.”
“Sophie,” he said, his voice rough. “You didn’t.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t believe him.
And I walked out.
The cab ride back to The Palmetto Rose was a blur of city streets and watery reflections. I stared out the window, replaying everything. The bridge. The nap. The kiss. The way his hands had stopped mine.
Maybe he only saw me as someone to protect. Someone fragile. Someone whose pain made romance feel inappropriate.
And God, the humiliation of it all.
The panic attack. The crying. The confession about Jonesy. The vulnerability. Had I turned myself into something too delicate to desire?
When I reached the hotel, I went straight to my room and closed the door behind me like I needed to lock the world out.
I sat on the bed and pressed my palms to my eyes.
You were brave, I told myself. Even if it didn’t go the way you hoped.
My phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
Wyatt: Sophie. I’m so sorry. I handled that badly.
My chest tightened.
Wyatt: It isn’t you. I promise.
Another message followed almost immediately.
Wyatt: I care about you more than I can explain. I just don’t want to hurt you.
Tears finally spilled.
Then one more:
Wyatt: Please let me make this up to you. Dinner tomorrow night. Just us. No pressure. No expectations. I just want to talk.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
My heart was bruised. My pride even more so. But beneath that was something steady. Something that hadn’t gone away.
Hope.
I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, Wyatt’s messages glowing like an afterimage behind my closed eyes.
Dinner tomorrow.
Just us.
No pressure.
The words should’ve soothed me. Instead, they tangled with the ache in my chest, twisting hope and hurt together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
I hated that I wanted to say yes immediately.
I hated even more that I probably would.
Beth knocked softly a few minutes later, not waiting for an answer before easing the door open. Natasha hovered behind her, both of them reading my face in that way good friends do—quick, efficient, merciless.
“Oh,” Beth said quietly. “Something happened.”
I sat up and shrugged, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “I overestimated my emotional stability.”
Natasha closed the door and leaned against it. “Bridge stuff?”
“And other stuff,” I admitted.
They waited. Didn’t push. That alone loosened something in me.
“I made a move,” I said. “On Wyatt.”
Beth’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay.”
“And he pulled back.”
Natasha’s expression softened immediately. “Pulled back, how?”
“Carefully,” I said. “Gently. Like he was afraid of breaking me.”
Beth winced. “Oof.”
“Exactly.”
I twisted the edge of the pillow between my fingers. “I think he thinks I’m too fragile right now. Or that he’d be taking advantage. Or—” I laughed weakly. “Or that I’m just his sad childhood friend who cries on bridges.”
Natasha crossed the room and sat beside me. “Hey. None of that is you.”
“It sure feels like it.”
Beth perched on the armchair. “Did he say he wasn’t attracted to you?”
“No.”
“Did he say he only sees you as a friend?”
“No.”
“Then this,” Beth said decisively, “is a him problem.”
Natasha nodded.
I exhaled slowly. “He texted. He wants to take me to dinner tomorrow.”
Beth’s mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile. “Good.”
I blinked. “That’s it? No speech? No warnings?”
“Listen,” she said. “You didn’t imagine what’s happening between you two. I watched him carry you off that bridge like the world had narrowed to one person. That’s not platonic.”
Natasha squeezed my hand. “You were brave today. Twice. Once on the bridge. Once with him.”
I swallowed hard. “It still hurts.”
“Of course, it does,” Natasha said gently. “But hurt doesn’t mean wrong.”
They stayed until the tightness in my chest eased, until the room felt less lonely. Eventually, Beth stretched and announced she needed a shower and carbs.
When they left, I picked up my phone again.
Me: Dinner tomorrow sounds okay. Thank you for apologizing.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Wyatt: Thank you for not slamming the door in my face. Literally or otherwise.
I smiled despite myself.
Me: You handled a panic attack on a bridge. You’re allowed one emotional misstep.
Wyatt: I’d like to do better than that.
Me: Tomorrow, then.
Wyatt: Tomorrow.
I set the phone down and let myself breathe.
Sleep came easier that night. Not perfect—my dreams were restless, full of Jonesy and height and motion—but when I woke the next morning, it wasn’t with dread.
It was with resolve.
I took a long shower, letting the steam work its way into my muscles, washing away the lingering embarrassment. I dressed carefully, not for Wyatt exactly, but for myself. Something that made me feel grounded. Whole.
At breakfast, Beth shot me a knowing look. “Dinner tonight.”
“Yes.”
“With him.”
“Yes.”
She grinned. “Attagirl.”
Natasha lifted her coffee. “To conversations that matter.”
I clinked my mug against hers, heart fluttering but steady.
Whatever happened next—whether Wyatt stepped forward or stayed tangled in his own shadows—I knew this much:
I hadn’t imagined the connection.
I hadn’t been foolish to want more.
And I wasn’t weak for hoping.
Dinner would tell me what I needed to know.