Beckett #2
“You’re not as mean as you pretend,” she murmured.
I huffed a laugh. “Don’t spread that rumor. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”
She giggled — quiet, tired — and leaned against the doorframe, hair slipping over her shoulder. The air between us felt too small, too charged.
“You came for me,” she said softly.
“Someone had to.”
Her eyes lifted, slow and searching, like she was trying to figure out if I meant it the way it sounded. I didn’t know myself.
The moment stretched — long enough to feel like falling.
I knew what I should do. Step back. Say goodnight. Leave before I made everything worse. But she tilted her chin just slightly, lips parting — an accident or an invitation, I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter.
I kissed her.
It was soft at first — hesitant, testing, like we both expected to wake up from it. But then she breathed my name against my mouth, and that was it. The line snapped.
Her hand came up to my chest, fingers bunching in my shirt, and I sank into her, letting everything I’d been holding back pour into that single, reckless moment.
Her lips tasted like heat and salt and something dangerously close to relief. The porch light flickered, the night tilting around us. I could feel her heartbeat through the space between us — uneven, real.
This is selfish. This is wrong. I don’t care.
I kissed her again, deeper this time, until she sighed into me — a sound that felt like it had been trapped inside her for years. My hands found her waist, not to pull her closer, but just to feel that she was there — alive, warm, impossibly human.
When we finally broke apart, she stayed close, her forehead brushing mine, breath unsteady.
“Beckett,” she whispered, not quite a question, not quite a warning.
“Yeah,” I said, voice low, rough.
She looked up, eyes glassy in the half-light. “I shouldn’t have—”
“Yeah,” I said again. “Me neither.”
But neither of us moved.
The third time I kissed her, it wasn’t careful.
It was hungry.
That slow burn that had been simmering between us for months finally broke loose, spilling over like it had been waiting for the right excuse. She made a small, startled sound in the back of her throat—surprise, maybe, or something more—and I took it for permission.
Her hands came up to my shoulders, clinging like she didn’t want to let go. And for one insane heartbeat, I thought maybe this was it—maybe she wanted this too.
Then she froze.
Her palms pressed against my chest, gentle but firm, pushing me back an inch. Her eyes were unfocused, dazed, then suddenly sharp with alarm.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
“Wait—what—”
Before I could even finish the sentence, she doubled over and threw up. All over me.
Warm. Immediate. Unavoidable.
Silence fell like a brick. The night went completely still, except for the faint, miserable sound of her gagging. I looked down at my shirt—at the disaster now clinging to the fabric—and blinked once.
“Guess that’s a no, then,” I muttered.
A half-laugh slipped out before I could stop it. Not mocking—just helpless. Because really, what the hell else could I do?
She made a strangled noise that might’ve been a sob, might’ve been mortification. “I am so sorry,” she groaned, hands over her face. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe I just—”
“Hey, hey,” I said quickly, steadying her elbow before she could topple over. “Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”
She peeked through her fingers, cheeks flushed, hair sticking to her forehead. “Not to normal people.”
“Good thing I’m not normal.”
That earned a weak laugh—the kind that was more apology than amusement. I guided her inside, one hand at her back, steering her past the entryway and into the bathroom. She didn’t fight me, just stumbled along, muttering something about how she was “a walking PSA for bad decisions.”
It wasn’t pretty.
She groaned another apology while I held her hair back, trying not to breathe too deeply. “I’m so sorry, Beckett. Oh gosh, I’m—”
“Stop apologizing,” I said, voice rough but steady. “Just breathe.”
“Never drinking again.”
“Sure you aren’t.”
She groaned again, half-laughing, half-miserable, and I couldn’t help the tiny smile tugging at my mouth. Once she was steady enough to sit upright, I grabbed a glass, filled it with cold water from the tap, and handed it to her.
“Here. Small sips.”
She obeyed, still blinking blearily, like she couldn’t quite figure out how she’d gotten from a bar to her own bathroom. “You’re going to make fun of me for this forever.”
“Probably,” I said. “But not tonight.”
I found a bottle of aspirin in her kitchen cabinet, shaking two into my palm. When I came back, she’d wandered into the living room and collapsed onto the couch, face half-buried in a pillow.
“Take these,” I said, holding them out.
She made a noise that sounded vaguely like no, then squinted up at me, bleary-eyed. “Don’t tell Naomi.”
I huffed a laugh. “Scout’s honor.”
She forced a smile.
“Sit up,” I told her, gesturing toward the edge of the tub. She obeyed, eyes glassy, still pale. I grabbed a towel from the rack and ran it under cold water.
When I knelt beside her and handed it over, she blinked down at me like she couldn’t quite believe I was still there. “You’re not… disgusted?”
“Oh, I’m disgusted,” I said, wringing out my shirt over the sink. “But I’ve survived worse. Locker rooms. Road trips. Adam’s protein shakes.”
That got a small laugh out of her. Progress.
“Seriously, Ellery,” I added, quieter now. “It’s fine. You’re fine.”
She nodded, eyes dropping to her hands. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”
“Too late,” I said. “Already started.”
She sighed, satisfied, and curled up again — tiny, exhausted, wearing one of those oversized sweaters that swallowed her whole. She was out within minutes, a soft, uneven rhythm to her breathing.
I stood there longer than I should’ve, just watching. The room was warm and quiet — the kind of quiet that made you forget you were supposed to leave.
There was a blanket folded over the back of the couch, so I pulled it down and tucked it around her shoulders. She murmured something I couldn’t quite catch, turning onto her side, one hand peeking out from the edge of the blanket.
I set the aspirin and the water on the coffee table, next to the note I scribbled on the back of a grocery receipt:
Hydrate. And maybe dream about someone less complicated.
It was supposed to be a joke, but as soon as I wrote it, the words hit too close to home.
I stood there in the half-light, one hand on the lamp, the other still holding the pen.
Her face was relaxed now — no worry lines, no exhaustion, no forced composure.
Just her. The same woman who ran herself into the ground trying to save the world, who looked at every broken thing like it was her personal job to fix it.
She deserved someone steady. Someone uncomplicated.
Not me.
Still, I couldn’t make myself move.
Her hair was a mess, a few strands fanned across her cheek. I reached out — not to touch, just to hover — then pulled back before I could make another bad decision.
You’re done for, I thought, chest tightening. You’re completely in love with her.
I turned off the lamp, and the room fell into darkness. The only sound left was her breathing — soft, even, steady — like the quietest confession in the world.
I let myself stand there for one more heartbeat. I tossed my ruined shirt into her laundry basket, grabbed a spare blanket from the couch, and came back just as she tried to apologize again. I didn’t let her.
Instead, I crouched in front of her, brushing a strand of hair out of her face with the back of my knuckles. “Go to bed,” I said softly. “You’ll hate yourself less in the morning.
And then… I left. Completely shirtless, fucking cold… but somehow, still fucking warm inside my chest.