Chapter 60
sixty
. . .
CONNOR
The next morning, I wake up before Whitney does.
For a second, I don’t move. I just lie there in the quiet of the hotel room and look at her.
She’s on her side facing me, one hand tucked under her pillow, hair a mess and half over her cheek.
In sleep, she looks softer, unguarded, almost like last night didn’t happen.
Like there isn’t a leaked video sitting somewhere in the world with my face on it and my worst words coming out of my mouth.
Like I didn’t stand in front of her and say I love you by accident and mean it more than anything I’ve ever said on purpose.
Something in my chest goes tight because after all that, she let me stay.
That doesn’t fix anything. I know that. It doesn’t erase the video, or the hurt on her face, or the fact that I managed to drag the ugliest version of myself straight into the middle of the one thing in my life that matters most.
But she let me stay, and that has to mean something.
Careful not to wake her, I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
It lights up with exactly the mess I expected.
Texts from Leo. Two from Vivi. One from an unknown number I don’t need to open to know who it is. Another text from Nico a few minutes later, because apparently being human garbage is a full-time job.
I open that one anyway.
Nico
Hope you enjoyed the trip down memory lane.
Something ugly moves through me, fast and hot, but I don’t let my ego take over.
I forward everything. The texts. The screenshots. The unknown-number shit. The link to the video. All of it. First to Leo, then to my lawyer. My thumbs move faster now that the decision is made.
Handle this. Everything from him goes through legal now.
Then I block Nico’s number.
I stare at the screen for one second longer, waiting to feel something dramatic. Mostly, I just feel drained.
I set the phone down and scrub a hand over my face. My body feels like hell—hotel sleep, meet exhaustion, emotional whiplash, all of it sitting heavy in my bones. I should probably leave her room for five minutes and find coffee, but I don’t want to.
The idea of putting more than one closed door between me and Whitney right now makes something in me pull tight. So, I do the next best thing and slip out of bed for a shower.
I stand under the water longer than I need to, forehead tipped forward, palms braced against the tile while my brain tries to shut off completely.
But bits of last night keep flashing anyway.
Whitney’s face when she came back to her room and saw me still outside.
Her voice when she said she was still hurt.
The way she folded into my chest like comfort and anger could somehow live in the same body at once.
And maybe they can.
Maybe that’s what loving someone in real life actually looks like—messy instead of easy, complicated instead of convenient, but true in a way that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.
The bathroom door opens softly behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.
Whitney steps inside the bathroom, still half asleep, wearing one of the hotel robes. Her hair is wild from sleep, her eyes softer now than they were last night, but not unaffected. I don’t think either of us gets that after last night.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just crosses the tile, then steps into the shower with me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I make room for her automatically, one hand bracing at the shower wall behind her so her robe doesn’t get hit by the spray.
“Morning,” I say, because apparently that’s the only thing my overtired brain comes up with.
Whitney gives me a look. “That feels aggressively casual for the circumstances.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
“Yeah,” I say. “It does.”
She steps in closer, letting the water hit her shoulders, then tips her face up into it for a second with her eyes closed. I watch her do that and have the completely insane thought that I could stand here for the rest of my life if nobody bothered us again.
That seems unlikely.
Whitney opens her eyes and catches me looking.
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Still doing it anyway.”
That gets the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth, and fuck, I’d probably commit crimes for that almost-smile right now.
She reaches out and puts her hand on my side without warning, her palm landing right over the sailboat on my ribs.
Everything in me goes still. Not because I don’t want her touching me there. It’s exactly the opposite. Because she knows what it means now, and I’m still getting used to being seen like that.
Her thumb drifts once across the lines beneath the boat. Over the hidden S.G.
She doesn’t look down at it. Just leaves her hand there.
The shower runs around us. Somewhere beyond the bathroom, the room’s AC kicks on with a low hum. The whole world narrows down to her hand on my ribs and the fact that she’s letting me be here with her.
I cover her hand with mine and hold it there for a second, over the tattoo.
“I wouldn’t have gotten it if you meant nothing,” I say.
Her face shifts at that.
“I know,” she says.
And maybe that’s the best thing anyone could say to me right now.
Then, because I’m not trying to turn this into another heavy conversation before we’ve even had coffee, I let my gaze drop to the robe she’s still wearing, now soaked by the spray.
“You know this isn’t how showering works.”
She blinks before looking down at herself, then back to me.
“Interesting,” she says. “Because from where I’m standing, I’m doing great.”
“That robe’s soaked.”
She lifts one shoulder. “I was making an entrance.”
I laugh again, fuller this time, and some of the weight in my chest loosens.
“There she is,” I murmur.
Whitney’s expression softens. “Who?”
“The girl who makes everything feel less impossible.”
“Connor,” she whispers.
“I’m not saying that to make it okay. I’m just glad you’re here.”
She shrugs one shoulder out of the robe, then the other, and lets the wet thing slide down into a useless heap around her feet. I keep my eyes on her face for exactly two seconds before they betray me completely.
Whitney notices.
“You’re still staring,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“Did you learn nothing from last night?”
“I learned plenty from last night.” My voice roughens a little without permission. “Mostly that I’m in love with you and terrible at pretending this is casual.”
Her teasing fades, and she steps closer.
The warmth in the room shifts just enough to remind me that tenderness with her is never separate from wanting. It’s all mixed up together now.
She steps into me slowly, until there’s no room left between us but steam and the last thin edges of restraint.
My hand settles at her waist carefully, giving her every chance in the world to move if she wants to.
Then, because she’s apparently determined to keep me from fully drowning in the emotional weight of the last twenty-four hours, she glances down toward where the robe puddled at our feet and says, “I do think you owe me for this, though.”
“For the robe?”
“For emotional distress. And also, the robe.”
A laugh punches out of me. “I agree.”
“You can start by finding me coffee.”
“I can do that.”
“And maybe breakfast.”
“Already handled.”
“And then,” she says, looking back up at me, “we’re going to figure out what happens next without anyone else making that decision for us.”
While it’s not forgiveness or a reset button, it’s us, choosing to keep moving forward.
Along with a wave of relief, something settles low and solid in my chest.
“Yeah,” I say. “We are.”
Whitney nods once, satisfied.
Then she leans her forehead lightly against my chest, right over my heart, and for a second neither of us says anything. I wrap my arms around her carefully, water slipping over both of us, steam curling thick around the glass.
This isn’t easy, and it’s not fixed. But it’s real.
And for the first time since yesterday blew everything apart, real feels like enough to build on.
After a minute, Whitney tips her head back and looks up at me. “You know what the worst part is?”
“There are several strong contenders.”
“That you look annoyingly good all wrecked and sincere.”
I bark out a laugh. “That’s your takeaway?”
“No. But it’s on the list.”
I slide one hand up her back, keeping her close. “Good. I’d hate to lose my edge.”
Whitney rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. And that feels like more of a gift than I deserve.
Later, there will be Rory and Leo and Vivi and fallout and whatever version of the world is waiting outside this hotel room.
But right now, Whitney is still here, and that changes the shape of everything.
The rest of it is still waiting, but at least this time, I’m not walking into it alone.