Chapter 6-Esme
I wake up warm.
That’s the first thing I notice.
Not the kind of warm that comes from summer heat or too many blankets, but something deeper.
Safer.
Like I’ve been wrapped up in something solid all night.
For a second, I don’t move.
Don’t open my eyes.
Because I don’t want to lose it.
And then I breathe in.
My eyes fly open.
Benji.
The scent hits me all at once—clean soap, worn cotton, and that unmistakable male musk that’s so uniquely him it makes my chest ache.
God, I remember this.
I close my eyes again, just for a second, pressing my face deeper into the pillow.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I’ve missed this.
Missed him.
More than I ever let myself admit.
The realization sits heavy and undeniable in my chest, and for a moment, I just stay there.
Curled in his bed.
Breathing him in like I’ve been starving for it.
Because maybe I have.
Maybe I’ve been running for so long, building something new, convincing myself I was fine—that I didn’t need Benji anymore—that I forgot what it felt like to just stop.
To feel.
To belong somewhere.
Here.
With him.
I bury my face in the pillow again, shameless about it now, inhaling deeply like I can store it up for later.
For when I leave.
Because I am leaving.
That’s the plan.
That’s always been the plan.
Right?
The soft creak of the door opening snaps me out of it.
I bolt upright.
My heart jumps into my throat as I spin toward the sound—and there he is.
Benji.
Standing in the doorway like something out of a dream I shouldn’t be having.
And then he freezes.
His gaze locks on me.
And I suddenly become very, very aware of what I’m wearing.
A black tank top.
And purple cotton panties.
That’s it.
But I don’t move to cover myself.
Don’t grab the sheet.
Don’t hide.
Because something in me refuses to.
Instead, I sit there, back straight, chin tipped just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on even as my pulse starts to race.
His eyes drag over me.
Slow.
Thorough.
From my hair, probably a mess from sleep, down to my bare legs tangled in his sheets.
Heat flares low in my stomach.
Traitor.
I suck in a breath, the moment stretching tight and electric between us, charged with a thousand things we’re not saying.
And at least half of them are dangerous.
Because yeah—a very large part of me would like to launch myself across this bed and climb him like a tree.
Ex-husband.
Not-ex-husband.
Whatever the hell he is.
Doesn’t matter because that is a bad idea.
A terrible idea.
A catastrophic, life-altering mistake of an idea.
Which is exactly why my body is leaning toward it like it’s inevitable.
Nope.
Not happening.
If I have to go dig the nail file I have in my purse to gouge my own eyes out just to remind myself of all the reasons this is a terrible plan, I will.
Because one thing I know?
Me and Benji?
That road ends in heartbreak.
Again.
“Didn’t mean to wake you, Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, low, like he just dragged it out of his chest. “Just needed a clean shirt.”
Sweetheart.
The word hits me right in the sternum.
I swallow hard.
“Yeah,” I manage. “No problem.”
My voice sounds thin.
Not like me.
And then I see it.
At first, it’s just a dark patch.
A shadow across his abdomen.
But then it spreads.
Red.
My brain catches up all at once.
Blood.
“Oh my God.”
I’m moving before I even think about it.
The sheet falls away, and I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the fact that he’s standing there bleeding like it’s nothing.
“What happened?” I demand, already halfway across the room.
He glances down like he forgot it was even there.
“It’s nothing,” he says, dismissive. “Just an angry bull. Got too close.”
“Too close?” I echo, my voice climbing. “Benji, you’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had worse—”
“Sit down.”
The words come out sharp. Commanding.
Even I’m surprised by the tone.
He blinks at me.
Then—God help me—he listens.
He turns and moves into the bathroom, dropping onto the closed toilet seat like it’s no big deal.
Like he didn’t just walk into the room looking like a damn war zone.
I rush past him, dropping to my knees in front of the cabinet under the sink, yanking it open and digging through it.
“Where is it—come on—” I mutter, pushing aside towels and random supplies until I find what I’m looking for.
First aid kit.
Thank you very much.
I grab it and turn back to him.
And then, he pulls his shirt all the way off.
My breath leaves me in a rush.
Not just because of the injury.
Although, yeah—that’s there.
A long, angry scrape across his abdomen, maybe eight inches, red and raw but not deep enough to do real damage.
But also—him.
Shirtless.
Tan skin stretched over muscle that’s even more defined than I remember.
Hard lines. Strength. Power.
And tattoos.
Jesus.
I almost forgot about the tattoos.
He had some a few years ago.
But it looks like he added more.
My eyes track them before I can stop myself, tracing ink over his chest, his ribs, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
“Esme.”
His voice snaps me back.
I blink.
Focus.
Right.
Wound.
Not whatever that was.
“Don’t move,” I mutter, pushing to my feet and stepping closer.
I grab a cloth, wet it, and start cleaning the cut.
He hisses under his breath.
“Sorry,” I say automatically, even as I keep going.
“It’s fine.”
My hands are steady.
Good.
Because the rest of me?
Not so much.
I’m acutely aware of everything.
The heat coming off his body.
The way his thighs are braced, solid and strong around me.
The fact that I’m standing between his legs in nothing but a tank top and panties like this is completely normal.
My heart is pounding.
My skin feels too tight.
“Hold still,” I murmur, leaning in closer to get a better look.
His breath shifts.
Just a little.
I feel it more than hear it.
I clean the wound carefully, jaw tight with concentration, refusing to let my thoughts spiral anywhere they shouldn’t.
This is medical.
Practical.
Necessary.
Not whatever else this could turn into.
“You always did this,” he says quietly.
I pause.
“What?”
“Take over when I got hurt,” he replies, watching me. “Didn’t matter if it was a scratch or something worse.”
My throat tightens.
“Someone had to keep you from bleeding out over something stupid,” I mutter, trying for light but not quite getting there.
His lips twitch.
“Yeah,” he says. “Guess that was you.”
Silence falls again.
Different this time.
Softer.
Heavier.
I finish cleaning the scrape and reach for the bandages, carefully pressing them into place.
“There,” I say quietly. “You’ll live.”
“Good to know.”
I straighten slowly.
And I look down, noticing the way his hands are fisted against his thighs. White-knuckled.
Like he’s doing his best to keep them in place.
We’re close.
Too close.
His shoulders are set, and I can feel the tension in him.
The restraint.
His eyes roam over me from where I’m still standing between his legs, slowly taking in every inch until he raises them to mine.
And just like that—everything shifts.
Again.
It’s that same pull that got us in trouble in the first place.
That same undeniable gravity.
That thing between us that never really went away, no matter how much distance we put between it.
I swallow hard.
“Try not to get gored by any more livestock,” I say, because I need to say something before I do something incredibly stupid.
“Can’t make any promises,” he replies, voice low.
Of course he can’t.
Because that’s Benji.
Always has been.
I step back.
Just enough to breathe.
Just enough to remember who I am.
Why I’m here.
“I should, um, shower,” I say, gesturing vaguely behind me.
“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t look away.
And for one dangerous, stupid second—neither do I.
Because the truth is?
This isn’t over.
Not even close.
And if I’m not careful—I’m going to fall right back into him.
And right into heartache.
All over again.