Chapter 19 #2
When the Benny-and-the-Beast scene hit, I closed my eyes for a second, just listening. Letting it soak in. God, I was tired. I was so focused on helping Nate, I didn’t realize how late it was and how it was so past my usual bedtime.
“He quoted that one too,” I said, eyes still closed. “Said we all had a Beast we had to outrun sometimes.”
Nate didn’t speak. Just reached over and laced his fingers through mine.
I let him.
No commentary. No jokes. Just quiet, open skin against skin, steady and sure.
It got to me more than any kiss could have.
It was a promise and safety all in one gesture, and it made my throat tighten up.
He wasn’t holding my hand for PR, he was holding it because he wanted to.
God, I liked how his hand felt in mine. He rubbed his thumb over the outside of mine over and over, the gesture so simple yet so sweet.
The movie ended and the credits rolled, and neither of us moved.
Nate leaned forward slowly, not breaking our cuddle, and grabbed the remote, and without asking, queued up another one—Major League this time. “We could use something lighter,” he said, settling back beside me.
I nodded, curling deeper into the hoodie. I was already tired, emotionally strung out in the best, weirdest way. My body hummed from the nearness of him, from the weight of the night, from everything I wasn’t ready or willing to think about.
Sometime between the second strikeout montage and the wild pitch scene, my head drifted to his shoulder.
He tensed for half a second but then he relaxed. His arm came down slowly, curling around me and tugging me closer into his side. I breathed in the scent of his hoodie—clean laundry and cologne and him—and exhaled into the space where grief and comfort had blurred.
You’re not supposed to feel this safe.
Not this soon.
Not with someone who’s just supposed to be fake.
But God, I did.
I blinked heavily, fighting the pull of sleep, but it was too warm, too soft, too much. Nate’s thumb traced slow, lazy circles along the back of my shoulder, and that was it. I was gone.
Why is my neck on fire?
I blinked slowly, the ache at the base of my skull spreading like betrayal across my shoulders. My head was tilted at some ungodly angle, and when I tried to shift, a soft, low snore rumbled against my cheek.
Snore?
My stomach dropped.
I squinted at my watch, barely able to make out the numbers in the glow of the TV screen. 3:35 a.m. Oh God. Not only was I still here, I was still on him.
We’d fallen asleep.
On the couch.
Together.
Like we did this all the time.
My legs were tangled with his. One of my arms was under the hem of his hoodie like I’d been trying to crawl into his ribcage. His large warm hand rested on my hip, his thumb brushing the fabric.
I didn’t move at first. I was frozen between panic and something dangerously close to comfort. Too comfortable.
Slowly, carefully, I tried to inch away, mentally calculating how expensive an Uber would be at this hour or if I could just fake a sudden case of teleportation.
But the moment I shifted, Nate stirred. His hand tightened slightly on my waist and his brow furrowed. He blinked once, disoriented, then bolted up.
“Cass?” His voice was rough, sleepy, unfairly attractive. His hair was sticking up, his shirt was rumpled, and he looked like something straight out of a dream I shouldn’t be having.
“I—uh—I was gonna head out,” I whispered, already kicking the blanket off. “Didn’t mean to … do this.”
He rubbed his hand down his face and blinked a few more times. “It’s still dark out.”
“Yeah, it tends to do that at night.”
He didn’t laugh. He just looked at me for a long, quiet beat. “You’re not leaving at 3 a.m.”
“I wasn’t planning to do this.” My voice cracked on the word. I hated that it sounded like a confession. It wasn’t like he seemed mad. I had no idea why I was freaking out, but I was. My pulse raced. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep. Not on you either. I was just tired and the movies were late—”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He cupped my face, a sleepy smile stretching across it. His stubble came back over night, giving him an even more sexy gruff look. “I can’t recall the last time I fell asleep on the couch. You must’ve been comfortable.”
“Right.” I swallowed the ball of emotions clogged my throat.
He stood as he yawned, a determined look on his face. His eyes stayed locked on mine as he reached out, gently tugging at my wrist.
“Come to bed,” he said. “Just … come lay down, Cassidy.”
I stared at him. “Wait. What?”
“Come to bed with me.”
I shivered. Hearing him say those words woke something inside me and half of me wanted to explore it, half of me wanted to run. “I-I shouldn’t.”
“But you want to,” he said, the barest smile curling one side of his mouth. “And I want you to. Not for anything but sleep. Just … stay. With me.”
“Okay. Do you … is this normal for you?” He was being so casual about this, it made me question everything. I didn’t just sleep with men, not like this. “I can go, truly.”
“I’ll be pissed as fuck if you walk out of my place right now. Here, you take my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“No! No, you can’t—I won’t do that. I’ll take the couch.”
“Ain’t happening.” He grabbed the blanket and laid back on the couch, his eyes closing as he pointed toward a door. “Use my bed.”
“Nate, you’re being ridiculous. I’m not using your bed. You pitched! You need rest!”
“Shh, I’m sleeping.”
I stood there for another long second, torn between fleeing the scene like it was on fire and crawling under the covers and pretending none of this was a big deal. Nate’s eyes stayed shut, but I could see the way his jaw clenched, like he was bracing for me to bolt anyway.
I exhaled. “Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not stealing your bed.”
No response. Not even a twitch.
“I’m serious, O’Brien. I’m very considerate.”
Still nothing.
“You are so annoying,” I whispered as I crept across the room.
The blanket was soft. The bed smelled like his detergent and cedar. I slipped under the covers with a sigh and laid there stiffly for all of three seconds before I heard the couch creak.
I turned.
He was standing there in the doorway, arms crossed, his hair a mess and his eyes tired but still so green.
“You’re not sleeping,” I accused.
“You didn’t look comfortable,” he said.
Before I could respond, he crossed the room, pulled back the covers on the other side, and slid in like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at the ceiling. “This is highly inappropriate.”
He chuckled, low and gravelly. “You’re wearing my hoodie and just drooled on my chest an hour ago. I think we’re past inappropriate.”
I turned my head, found him watching me already.
“Okay,” I whispered, barely audible.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t push. Just reached over, gently brushed a piece of hair off my cheek, and whispered, “Sleep.”
And for some reason I did.
Because wrapped in Nate O’Brien’s bed, breathing in his warmth, I’d never felt more safe in my life.