28. Chapter 28
twenty-eight
Skye
Iwake with a start, my heart already racing, even though, for one disorienting second, I have no idea why.
The room is dark, the TV off. My blanket is half on the floor.
And I’m alone—the solid warmth I had fallen asleep against gone.
I jerk upright, my eyes snapping to the spot next to me on the couch. It’s cold. Empty.
Boston must have left after I fell asleep. Gone back home—to Jake’s. What did I expect? That he’d spend the whole night sitting on a couch while I drool on his shoulder?
Still, disappointment settles heavy in my chest. Because sometime between him checking every room in the house, listening to me ramble about my fear of being alone, and letting me use him as a human pillow, my brain apparently decided his presence was essential.
My chest tightens with how different the house feels without him here. Actually, it feels exactly how it did when he wasn’t here. It was Boston who made it feel different… safe. And now?
A sound comes from deep in the house. My body locks up, pulse skyrocketing.
It’s nothing, Skye. Just a pipe, or—
Another sound, a floorboard maybe. Footsteps?
I scramble to my feet, my blanket slipping off me, tangling around my feet. I almost trip over the coffee table, stubbing my toe hard. A strangled whimper escapes me.
“Stormy?” The warmth in his voice wraps around me. Half a second later, Boston appears from the hallway and the relief crashes through me so hard my knees wobble.
He steps closer, brows knitted. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and gentle. “You okay?”
I nod, releasing a shaky breath.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he breathes, moving a hand to my arm, stroking softly. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”
I see the concern in his eyes. “Sorry, Skye. I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says and rubs the back of his head. “My neck was starting to cramp.”
A smile tugs at my mouth despite myself. “From being used as a pillow?”
He gives me a half-smile. “Maybe.”
I laugh softly. It feels strange after the sudden panic, but also welcome.
“And I wanted to brush my teeth,” Boston says, nodding toward the hallway he just emerged from.
“You brushed you teeth?”
He nods.
“In the middle of the night?”
He shrugs. “I take my dental hygiene seriously.”
Another completely involuntary laugh escapes me. Maybe I haven’t quite recovered from my mild concussion yet. Or maybe it’s just the hour of the night and the remnants of adrenaline rushing through my veins.
“Do you have to go?” I ask, sad at the mere thought of it. “I know Mrs. Davis is expecting you back at some point tonight.”
He shakes his head, but I don’t miss the tick in his jaw. “I don’t have anywhere to be tonight.” Then he blinks at me. “Unless you’re asking me to leave, of course. I won’t force my company on you.”
I know what my answer should be. I know how Archer would react if he found out I invited another guy to spend the night at my house. Doesn’t matter if it’s someone I’ve known since before I even lost my first baby tooth. Then again, this isn’t something I have to tell him.
“I want you to stay,” I say like I’m confessing to murder. Maybe, in one way or another, I am…
Boston nods, hesitates for a fraction of a second, then steps around me and lowers himself back onto the couch—same spot he vacated to brush his teeth and relieve the crick in his neck.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching him—the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the way his dark hair doesn’t even hint at sleep. He was probably awake this whole time while I skipa-dee-doo-dah’d through dream land, using him unabashedly as the most comfortable heating pad.
He watches me back, eyebrows starting a slow ascent as the seconds tick by.
I should go upstairs, climb into my own bed, and let him get some uninterrupted sleep in a horizontal state. “Do you work tomorrow?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Sunday’s my day off.”
Apparently my brain interprets that as permission to keep the poor boy awake a little longer. I pretzel myself on the couch next to him, reaching for the blanket on the floor.
Boston chuckles. “It’s July.”
“Don’t know what that has to do with anything,” I say, and tug a small corner of the blanket onto Boston’s leg just because I can. “Did you sleep at all?”
He glances at me. “Not really. Closed my eyes a little here and there after the TV auto-shut off, but—”
“You couldn’t get comfortable with a snoring human smushed against you?”
He smirks. “Yeah. And I didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful.”
Are chest cramps a thing? Because it suddenly feels like my ribs are all locked up.
We fall silent, and I allow myself to sit with the dim quiet. It feels so different with him here—warm and safe instead of cold and insidious. And there’s something else, too…
“I don’t know how you manage to be alone so much,” I whisper, partially to distract myself from that nameless feeling swirling in my stomach.
“Necessity,” he says quietly.
I turn toward him. Moonlight spills through the backyard window, catching in his eyes. “That makes me sad for you. You must’ve been so lonely.”
I’ve known Boston most of my life—or at least, I thought I did. His mom always seemed like she loved him. Even after his dad died. Maybe a little distant and tired, but not cruel or neglectful. So why didn’t she report him missing? Why didn’t anyone?
“I got used to it,” he says quietly.
The sadness in his tone makes me think he’s anything but used to it. I shift closer, like that could somehow erase—or at least ease—the heaviness that must have been his life.
We sit there in the dark, inches apart. We may not be touching, but I feel him all around me, his scent, his body heat, his comforting presence. And somehow, it feels… intimate.
“Something about darkness,” I say quietly, trying to ignore the warmth gathering low in my stomach, “makes me want to confess things.”
Boston chuckles, low and soft. “What in the world could you have to confess, Stormy?”
I shrug.
He shifts, turning his head to face me. Even in the dark I catch the smirk on his lips, the familiar glint in his gray eyes. “Go on,” he says. “Confess something.”
I grin. “I cheated on my calculus final senior year.”
“Boo.” He gives a lazy thumbs down. “That’s not a confession.”
I giggle. “You got something better, Mr. Rawlings? Some deep, dark secret you’re ready to spill?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he turns his head, our eyes meeting. “Remember when we used to volunteer to read to elementary kids every year?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I hated doing it. I always hated reading out loud,” he says, one corner of his lips pulling up. “Like, seriously, I’d get all sweaty reading One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.”
“Oo-kay.” I huff a laugh. “Why’d you volunteer to do it, then? To get out of class?”
He shakes his head, the gray in his eyes softening. “Because I knew you’d be there.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe, a sensation in my stomach like I’m falling.
Six little words—the implications, the meaning behind them—and suddenly my mind is a maelstrom of tiny moments I spent years dismissing, like the strange little spark in my chest whenever Boston walked into a room, or how my eyes always seemed to immediately find him in a crowd, and the irrational annoyance that flared whenever Lily openly fantasized about him.
But I noticed. Of course I did.
Still, I never let myself sit with those feelings. Never let myself wonder why being around Boston felt different than being around everyone else.
And then came Archer, and Boston disappeared, and somewhere along the way, I convinced myself there was no point dwelling on roads I’d never taken. That all things were exactly as they should be.
But now, sitting here in the dark with Boston just inches from me and his confession hanging between us, I can’t stop wondering.
What would’ve happened if I’d listened to those feelings instead of explaining them away?
What would’ve happened if he’d never left?
And suddenly, an entirely different life is playing out in my mind—years spent with Boston instead of Archer.
What would that look like? For me. For my family?
LM Commons probably wouldn’t exist. My dad’s law firm wouldn’t represent the Longfellow family estate.
My life would be quieter. Maybe simpler.
Maybe deeper… richer… safer.
“I’m sorry, Boss,” I whisper.
I hitch my leg onto the sofa, fully facing him now.
His brow furrows. “For what?”
“For just… everything.” I swallow. “For not knowing what your life looked like. For complaining about stupid things, like being home alone, while you were”—I shrug—“surviving.”
He shakes his head, exhaling softly. “You have nothing to apologize for. Not a single thing.”
“Yes, I do,” I argue. “I—”
His hand lifts, and before I realize what he’s doing, his fingertip brushes lightly against my lips.
The rest of the sentence dies instantly. So does my ability to think.
Boston’s eyes widen, like he didn’t mean to do it, either.
The room goes very still. Neither of us moves. The wind chime outside fades into the background until all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
Slowly his hand drops away, his gaze flicking to my mouth, then back to my eyes.
My pulse stumbles.
I lean in—or maybe it’s him diminishing the distance between us—enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my lips. Enough that I can smell his toothpaste. Mint. Clean. Comforting. Exactly like him.
My eyes flutter shut, lips tingling in anticipation.
“Skye.” His voice is rougher than before, barely even audible, strained like he’s fighting something or maybe himself.
When I look at him, his eyes are half-closed, but his jaw is tight. Painfully tight, even with his shallow breathing.
“We can’t,” he whispers.