CHAPTER TWELVE
THE LIGHT GOES OUT
Elise
The house is finally quiet.
I’ve been lying in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the party die down, followed by the guys moving around downstairs, cleaning. I hear Jordie’s voice as he herds people out, claiming he has a hookup waiting. I hear doors closing and footsteps on the stairs.
My body still thrums with leftover adrenaline and desire. I can still feel Jordie’s hands on me, still taste him, still sense the press of him against my hip when he asked if I was really going to leave him like that. God, he was huge.
“Come to my room later,” I told him. “After everyone’s gone.”
And now everyone’s gone. The house is quiet. I should get up, slip down the hall to his room, and finish what we started.
But something stops me.
A sound through the wall. In Wyatt’s room. The creak of his bed frame, as if he can’t settle.
I sit up, listening harder.
More movement. Something hits the floor. A muffled curse.
He’s having a bad night.
I should go to Jordie as I promised. Wyatt made it clear he’s fine, that he doesn’t need anyone, and who am I to push when he’s built those walls so carefully?
But I’m already out of bed, pulling on sweatpants over my sleep shorts, padding barefoot into the hallway.
Every light under his door is blazing.
I knock softly. “Wyatt?”
Silence. Then movement. The door cracks open, and he stands there, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, hair disheveled. His eyes are shadowed, haunted in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Did I wake you?” His voice is rough.
“No. Couldn’t sleep.” I gesture past him into his room. “Can I come in?”
He hesitates, weighing his options, deciding whether to let me through those carefully constructed walls. Then he steps back, opening the door wider.
His room is exactly what I expected: sparse and clean. Every light is on—overhead, desk lamp, bedside lamp, even the closet light. It’s bright enough to make me squint. Geez.
The bed is a disaster. Sheets twisted, pillows on the floor. He’s been fighting something all night and losing.
“Bad night?” I ask, keeping my voice soft and non-threatening.
“They’re all bad nights.” He stands with his arms crossed, a defensive posture, but I can see the exhaustion etched in every line of his body. “What are you doing up?”
“I heard you through the wall. Wanted to check on you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Wyatt.” I step closer. “You’re clearly not fine.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kick me out, tell me to mind my own business. Then his shoulders drop slightly, and he sinks onto the edge of his bed as if gravity has finally won.
“Can’t sleep,” he admits.
I sit next to him, close enough that our arms brush. “When’s the last time you actually slept?”
He’s quiet for so long that I think he won’t answer. “Three days. Maybe four.”
My heart cracks. “Wyatt—”
“I’m used to it.” But the way he says it, the exhaustion in his voice, tells me he’s anything but used to it. He’s just surviving it.
“Have you tried—” I stop myself. He’s probably tried everything: melatonin, meditation, sleep aids. Nothing works when your brain is replaying trauma on loop.
“What?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in his tone, as if he’s desperate enough to try anything.
An idea forms. It’s probably stupid, possibly presumptuous. But looking at him—at the shadows under his eyes, the way he’s practically vibrating with exhaustion—I can’t help but offer.
“Can I try something?” I ask.
He looks at me, wary. “Try what?”
“What if I stayed with you?”
“Like sleep together?” His eyes widen.
“Yes. Just sleep.”
He looks skeptical.
“And let me turn off the lights.”
His whole body goes rigid. “No.”
“I’ll be right here. If it’s too much, we can turn them back on.”
“Elise—” He stops himself, takes a long, slow inhale. “You’ll stay?” The question comes out small and uncertain, and it guts me.
“I’ll be right here.” I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “I promise.”
He stares at our joined hands for a long moment. Then, so quietly I almost miss it: “Okay.”
I stand slowly, giving him time to change his mind. I walk to the wall switch and look back at him one more time.
He’s watching me with eyes that are trying so hard to be brave and failing spectacularly.
I flip the switch.
The overhead light goes out. The room is still illuminated by the lamps, but it’s dimmer. Softer.
Wyatt’s breathing has quickened, shallow and rapid.
“You’re okay,” I reassure him as I move to the desk lamp. “I’m right here.”
That lamp goes out too. Now only the bedside lamp and the closet light remain. The room is noticeably darker, shadows creeping in from the corners.
His hand grips the sheets so tightly that his knuckles are white.
I sit back down next to him and take his hand again. “Still with me?”
“Yeah.” His voice is strained.
“Last two,” I warn. “Do you want me to stop?”
He’s quiet, breathing hard, clearly battling every instinct. Then he replies, “No. Do it.”
I turn off the closet light, then the bedside lamp.
The room plunges into darkness—not complete darkness, as there’s ambient light from the streetlamp outside and the moon, just enough to make out shapes and shadows.
Wyatt makes a sound—close to panic.
I’m back on the bed instantly, taking both his hands in mine. “Hey. Look at me. Look at me, Wyatt.”
His eyes find mine in the dim light—wild, scared.
“You’re not there,” I tell him firmly. “You’re here. With me. In your room.”
“I can see it.” His voice is wrecked, broken in a way that makes me want to gather all his pieces and put them back together. “I can see the flames. Hear the way the fire crackled. The smoke alarm kept going and going, and I couldn’t—”
“I know.” I squeeze his hands harder, demanding his focus. “But it’s not real. Not right now. Focus on me. On my hands. On my voice. Right here. Right now.”
His breathing is still too fast, but he’s holding onto me like a lifeline, his eyes locked on mine.
“Don’t go.”
The words are barely audible, raw and desperate, cracking something open in my chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promise, meaning it more than I’ve meant anything in a long time. “Where do you want me?”
He doesn’t answer with words—just shifts back on the bed, making room. An invitation.
I climb onto the mattress, and he immediately reaches for me, his hands finding my waist with a certainty that suggests his body knows what it needs, even if his mind is still catching up.
He pulls me down, positioning me so I’m draped across his chest, my head tucked under his chin, my leg thrown over his thighs.
I can feel every breath he takes, the solid warmth of him beneath and around me. His heart hammers against my ear, too fast but gradually slowing.
“Like this,” he murmurs into my hair, wrapping his arms around me properly now, holding me close like I’m something precious he’s afraid of losing. “Just like this.”
I let myself melt into him, molding my body to his. One of my arms drapes across his chest, feeling the defined muscle there, his fever-hot skin beneath my palm. I tuck myself closer, pressing against him until there’s no space left between us. He makes a sound—half relief, half something else.
His hand slides up my back, under my shirt, palm flat against my spine. It’s not sexual—just contact. Skin on skin. Grounding.
“Is this okay?” I ask, needing to be sure, needing to know I’m helping and not making this worse.
“More than okay.” His voice is already growing drowsy, exhaustion finally winning now that he feels safe enough to let it. “You feel real. Solid. Not like a dream.”
“I’m real.” I shift slightly, adjusting my weight, and his arms tighten reflexively, holding me in place.
“Don’t move.” It’s almost a plea. “Please. This is—you’re perfect right here.”
So I stay, letting him use me as his anchor, his shield against the nightmares. I let my warmth seep into him, my breathing regulate his.
His hand moves lazily up and down my spine now, fingers tracing patterns that might be unconscious or deliberate. Either way, it’s stirring feelings in me I shouldn’t be experiencing—not now, not when he needs comfort, not with the heat building low in my belly.
But I can’t help my body’s response to him.
I notice the way his thigh muscle flexes beneath mine, the way his chest rises and falls in a rhythm that’s becoming hypnotic.
I breathe in his scent—clean soap and something darker, more masculine, making me want to press my nose against his neck and just inhale.
God, he smells good. Feels good. All warm, solid muscle and careful tenderness.
I feel guilty immediately. Hours ago, I had Jordie in my bed, his hands on my body, his mouth on mine. And now I’m here, draped over Wyatt as if I belong, my body responding to him in ways that have nothing to do with offering comfort.
What’s wrong with me?
But then Wyatt’s breathing starts to even out, becoming deeper and heavier, and I realize what’s happening.
He’s falling asleep. Actually falling asleep.
His hand stills on my back, his body going slack beneath mine. His heartbeat slows to something steady and strong under my ear.
I should move. I should let him sleep alone now that the crisis has passed.
But I don’t want to. More than that, I don’t think he’d let me.
“Elise?” His voice is drowsy, already halfway to sleep.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime.”
Minutes pass. His breathing gets heavier, deeper. He’s falling asleep. Actually falling asleep.
Then I remember.
Jordie.
Shit.
I carefully extract myself from Wyatt’s arms. He makes a noise of protest but doesn’t wake, just curls into the pillow I was using.
I slip out of bed and pad to the door as quietly as possible. I check the hallway.
Jordie’s light is still on. He’s awake. Waiting.
Guilt twists in my stomach.
I tap softly on his door, and it opens immediately. He’s still dressed, clearly having not even tried to sleep. The look on his face—expectant, eager, then confused when he sees my expression—makes me feel like the worst person alive.
“Hey.” He leans against the doorframe, that golden boy smile starting to form. “I was beginning to think you forgot—”
“Raincheck,” I interrupt, keeping my voice low. “I’m sorry. Wyatt’s having a really bad night. He needs someone to be there for him right now.”
The smile fades. Confusion takes over. “What do you mean?”
“He can’t sleep. He’s barely slept in days. I just—” I gesture vaguely toward Wyatt’s room. “I need to be there. For him.”
Something flickers in Jordie’s expression—hurt, jealousy, understanding—all at once. “You’re sleeping in his room?”
“Not like that. He just needs—”
“I get it.” But his voice suggests he doesn’t really understand. Not completely. “You’re taking care of him.”
“Yeah.”
We stare at each other, the air between us thick with everything we’re not saying: the promise I made, the interruption that’s becoming a pattern, and the fact that I’m choosing Wyatt’s need over his want.
“Tomorrow?” he asks, his vulnerability in the question making my chest ache.
“Tomorrow,” I promise, even though I’m unsure if it’s a promise I can keep.
He nods, but doubt lingers in his expression. “Take care of him.”
“I will.” I start to turn away but look back. “Jordie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He forces a golden smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He needs you more than I do right now. Go.”
I go.
Back to Wyatt’s room, I close the door softly behind me. He’s still asleep, curled into my pillow, his face peaceful in a way I’ve never seen.
I climb back into bed, and he immediately reaches for me, pulling me against him as if his body knows I’m the missing piece.
I settle into his warmth and the solid safety of his arms, trying not to think about the hurt in Jordie’s eyes.
Trying not to think about being in bed with one guy just hours after almost sleeping with another.
Trying not to think about how good this feels, how right.
Wyatt’s breathing is deep and even against my neck. He’s truly sleeping—peacefully, for the first time in days, maybe longer.
And I’m the reason why.
That has to count for something, right?
Even if it complicates everything else.
Even if I’m slowly collecting these broken hockey players as if it’s my job.
Even if I have no idea what I’m doing.
I close my eyes and let the rhythm of Wyatt’s breathing lull me toward sleep.
Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what this means.
Tomorrow, I’ll confront Jordie’s hurt, Grant’s suspicion, and my own confusion.
Tonight, I’m just going to lie here in the dark with a man who hasn’t slept in days.
And try not to think about how much I don’t want to leave.