Chapter 32
LAINE
Iwake up in the guest room.
Guest room. White ceiling. Beige walls. The window that faces the backyard.
For a disoriented second I have no idea how I got here. Last thing I remember is the couch. The movie. Being sandwiched between them after — after.
Oh god.
My face goes hot just thinking about it.
Okay. Reconstruction. I fell asleep on the couch.
Someone carried me upstairs. Which one? Blake, probably.
Reid would've woken me up by accidentally banging my head on the doorframe.
Blake would've done it like carrying a piece of antique furniture — careful, silent, slightly overthinking the angle.
Was I drooling? I was definitely drooling.
I shift under the covers and my body immediately reminds me of the weekend.
Not painfully — just... thoroughly. Muscles I forgot I had are making themselves known.
My inner thighs. My abs, which is honestly insulting because I don't use my abs for anything voluntarily and apparently sex is the exception.
This is what happens when you go from zero physical intimacy to an entire weekend of — whatever that was. A sexual triathlon. The Laine Mitchell Invitational.
I press my palms over my eyes and laugh at myself. Alone. In the guest room. Like a normal person.
Why the guest room though?
Not Reid's bed. Not Blake's. The neutral zone. Switzerland.
That was thoughtful. Probably. Giving me the choice. Not assuming I'd want to sleep in either of their beds after—
But also I woke up alone. With nothing but white walls and my own brain for company. And my brain this morning is... a lot.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. 8:47 AM. Text from Jamila, sent twenty minutes ago.
Jamila
How's the sleepover going?
I stare at the message. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
How's it going? Well, Jamila, yesterday I had sex with Blake for the first time.
Multiple times. One of which broke his dresser.
Then both of them made me come on the couch while an action movie played.
Then someone carried me to the guest room like a sleeping toddler and now I'm lying here cataloging my sore muscles like a post-game injury report.
So. Fine. It's going fine.
Okay. I'm not fine. I'm panicking. Last night was a lot. Really a lot. The whole weekend has been. Sex was awesome. The guys were awesome. So why the heck am I spiraling?
You free for breakfast?
Three dots appear immediately.
Jamila
Always. Sunrise Diner? 30 min?
See you there.
I drop the phone on the bed and exhale. Breakfast with Jamila. Normal friend activity. Totally normal. Nothing to process. Everything's great.
Get up, Mitchell. Shower. Clothes. Human face. Go.
I grab my toiletry bag and peek into the hallway. Voices drift up from downstairs. Reid's laugh — that bright, easy one that carries through walls. Blake's lower response, too quiet to make out the words.
They're just... down there. Being normal. Making breakfast. Existing as two men in a kitchen while my entire internal landscape has rearranged itself overnight.
I dart across the hall to the bathroom. Lock the door. Turn the shower as hot as it'll go.
The water helps. By the time I'm dressed — jeans, sweater, nothing complicated, nothing that screams I had so much sex this weekend that I need a pillow to sit down — I almost feel like a functioning human.
I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Hair still damp. Eyes a little wild. Faint mark on my collarbone peeking above my sweater.
I look like a woman who's been having a lot of sex. Can people tell? Is there a vibe? Some kind of post-coital glow that strangers can detect?
Stop it. You look fine. You look normal.
I tug my sweater up half an inch. There. Normal.
Go downstairs. Say good morning. Leave. You can do this.
The kitchen smells like coffee and bacon. Reid's at the stove, spatula in hand. Blake sits at the table scrolling his phone. They both look up when I walk in.
Reid crosses to me immediately, cupping my face and kissing me soft and slow. "Morning."
"Morning." My voice comes out weird. Too high. Like I'm answering a question in class and I haven't done the reading.
He pulls back, studying me. "You okay?"
"Yeah, I just —" I gesture vaguely at the guest room, the ceiling, the general concept of waking up. "The guest room?"
"Blake carried you up around midnight. You were completely out." Reid tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "We didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep in either of our beds. Figured we'd let you decide."
That's sweet. That's actually really thoughtful. They gave me a choice. Like adults who communicate.
So why do I feel like this?
Blake appears beside Reid. Doesn't touch me. Just stands there with that watchful intensity, reading every micro-expression on my face like I'm a piece of wood he's checking for hidden damage.
And that's the thing. That's the thing that's too much right now. Not that he's looking at me — but that he sees me. Both of them do. And eight hours ago I was sandwiched between them on a couch making sounds I've never made in my life and now we're just... standing in a kitchen. With bacon.
How do people do this? How do you go from THAT to bacon?
"I need to meet Jamila," I blurt out. "We had a thing. Breakfast. I forgot about it."
Liar. You literally just texted her twenty minutes ago. The lying makes everything feel worse. I'm a jerk. But I can't stay here right now. I need to breathe. I need my friend.
They exchange a look. One of those silent conversations they do — some kind of military morse code transmitted through eyebrow movements. It used to make me feel excluded. Now it makes me feel seen in a way I'm not ready for at 8:47 in the morning.
Blake pulls out a chair and sits back down. Calm. Measured. He's giving me space. He knows. Of course he knows.
"You coming back after?" he asks. "Or going home?"
Woah. He just came right out and asked.
Going home would give me space. Time to process. Time to figure out what the hell I'm feeling and why I'm standing in a kitchen unable to make eye contact with two men who've seen me naked.
But going home also feels like running. And I promised myself I wouldn't run anymore.
"I'll be back. My stuff's still here."
Blake nods once. Reid squeezes my hand.
"Text us," Reid says. "Let us know you got there safe."
"I will."
I grab my keys and my purse and I'm out the door before either of them can say anything else. The cold air hits my face and I suck in a breath.
What am I doing?
I don't have an answer. I just know I need Jamila to help me figure it out.
The drive to the diner takes twelve minutes. My brain fills every single one of them.
You just ran out of there like the house was on fire. They probably think you're having a breakdown. ARE you having a breakdown? Is this what a breakdown feels like? Because it feels a lot like needing pancakes.
I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror at a red light. Same face. Same slightly wild eyes. Same mark on my collarbone that I keep touching without meaning to.
You had sex with Blake Moore. Multiple times. And then both of them — at the same time — on the couch—
The light turns green. Someone honks behind me.
Drive, Mitchell. Process later. Drive now.
I pull into the diner parking lot and sit in my car for thirty seconds, rehearsing what I'm going to say.
I need you to not judge me—
Oh god, starting with that is basically a guarantee she'll judge me.
I give up on rehearsing and go inside.
The bell above the door jangles as I shove through it.
Jamila's already in our usual booth, menu open, coffee steaming in front of her. Purple box braids perfect, outfit coordinated, looking like a woman who has her life together because she actually does. She looks up when I approach, and her smile freezes when she sees my face.
I slide into the seat across from her. Drop my forehead to the table.
The cool laminate feels good against my skin. Grounding. Real. Slightly sticky, but I'm choosing not to think about that.
"Okay." Jamila's voice is careful. "That's a look."
I don't lift my head. "I need pancakes. And possibly a lobotomy."
"Pancakes I can do. The other thing might take longer." She flags down the server. Orders for both of us without consulting me because she already knows what I get. That's friendship. That's the kind of knowing I can handle right now.
When the server leaves, she leans forward. "Spill."
I finally raise my head. She's watching me with that patient, steady expression — the one that says I have all day and you're not leaving this booth until you talk.
Where do I even start?
"I had sex with Blake."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "When?"
"Yesterday. Multiple times." I grab her coffee and take a sip. She doesn't stop me. "And then Reid came home and he wasn't upset — like, genuinely not upset, which is its own thing I need to process — and then they both—"
I make a vague gesture that conveys absolutely nothing.
"On the couch. Together. With me. Not with each other, but both of them at the same time, and I—"
"Breathe."
I breathe.
"You're starting in the middle," Jamila says. "Back up. Friday night."
"Friday night was Reid. Which was—" I wave my hand. "Amazing. Obviously. It's Reid. But then Saturday morning he left, and Blake and I were alone, and—"
"Wait. Reid just left?"
"He manufactured an excuse. Tony needed help or something. The man basically gift-wrapped alone time with Blake and shoved us together."
She snickers. "Sneaky."
"That's what I said." I steal another sip of her coffee.
"So Blake and I are alone and it just...
happened. Like, one minute I'm eating toast and the next—" I stop.
My face is doing something I can't control.
"Jamila, he shook. When he — he was literally shaking.
Like his body couldn't hold what he was feeling. "
She's quiet. Listening.
"And he broke the dresser."
"He what?"