Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
DEREK
She looks like she’s bracing for impact.
Audra stands in the middle of my bedroom, clutching the edges of my oversized Cambridge t-shirt like it might suddenly betray her, eyes wide and unfocused in that way that tells me she’s still not fully back yet.
The drug hasn’t left her system entirely — I can see it in the slight delay of her movements, the way she seems to be checking in with her body before trusting it.
It twists something uncomfortable in my chest.
“Are you freaking out?” Alex asks, helpful as ever. “Because you look like you’re freaking out.”
“Well,” she says carefully, chewing on her bottom lip, “I’m almost naked under this shirt and I don’t know if one or all of you got a peek at the girls.”
Mark doesn’t miss a beat. “I told you, we’ll never tell.”
“Don’t even start,” I warn him, laughing despite myself.
She still looks like a deer caught in headlights. Guard up. Vulnerable in a way she’d hate if she realized how visible it is.
Change the subject. Immediately.
“You think you could eat something?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
Her stomach answers for her — a soft but unmistakable growl. Alex snorts. Audra blushes, color blooming across her cheeks. It’s so unlike her usual composed confidence that it almost hurts to see.
“I’m hungry,” she admits, “but I’m afraid to eat. I really hate throwing up.”
“I can relate,” Alex says solemnly, like this is a shared trauma.
I move into the bathroom and grab my bathrobe. It’s absurdly long on her, heavy fabric meant to swallow space, and that’s exactly why I chose it. When I hand it to her, she looks up at me like I just gave her armor.
“Thank you,” she says quietly.
Something settles in my chest. Something protective. Something I don’t examine too closely.
“We’ll start with toast,” I tell her. “See how that goes.”
I glance at the guys. “Kitchen’s down the hall. You can’t miss it — especially with Mark around.”
She smiles faintly. “Thanks.”
I usher Mark and Alex out, pulling the door closed behind us with more care than necessary.
“She looks scared,” Mark says immediately.
“Wouldn’t you be?” Alex counters.
“She’s fine,” I say, more firmly than I mean to. “Just shaken.”
We move into the kitchen, the normalcy grounding. Coffee brewing. Bread popping into the toaster. Mark pulling out bacon like this is any other Sunday morning and not the aftermath of someone almost losing control of her own body.
“If she doesn’t feel well enough to go home,” I add, casual but deliberate, “she can stay here. I can work from home Monday if I need to.”
Both of them freeze.
“What?” I ask.
Alex shakes his head slowly, a grin forming. “Nothing. Just… wow.”
“I knew it,” Mark declares. “You’ve had the hots for her all along.”
“You’re just now figuring this out?” Alex adds.
I cross my arms and lean back against the counter, watching them dissect me like I’m not standing right here.
“It’s not like that,” I say automatically.
They just stare.
I sigh. “Fine. I like her.”
There it is.
No lightning. No panic. Just truth, sitting there between us like it’s always been waiting.
I take a sip of coffee and their grins widen.
Shit.
“She’s behind me, isn’t she?” I mouth.
They nod.
Of course they do.
I turn.
Audra stands in the doorway, my robe rolled up at least fifty times so she doesn’t trip over it.
It still drags behind her anyway. Her face is bare — freckles visible, makeup gone — and her hair is twisted up messily.
Her usual fireball energy is there, muted by exhaustion and something fragile she doesn’t quite know what to do with.
She looks… real.
“Mark made you some lemon tea,” I say quickly. “Toast’s almost done. Butter? Jam?”
“Um,” she says, glancing between us. “Just a teaspoon of sugar in the tea. I think I’ll try dry toast. But that bacon Mark’s frying smells amazing.”
“If you can hold down the toast,” I say, “you can dive into the bacon.”
She nods. “Deal.”
Alex pulls out a stool. “Seat, milady.”
“Your tea,” Mark says, sliding the mug toward her. “With respect and zero roofies.”
“Much appreciated,” she replies, wrapping her hands around the mug and blowing gently across the surface.
I shouldn’t be staring.
I am.
The ink that usually feels like armor suddenly exposed, read differently under her gaze. She looks softer like this, but no less sharp. Just… stripped of defenses she didn’t choose to lower.
I force myself to look away.
One day. Maybe.
I catch her looking at me the same way I’m looking at her.
The moment stretches.
“Damn,” I mutter.
“What?” she asks.
I don’t look away.
“I lose.”
Her brows knit together. “At what?”
“Everything,” I say honestly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re dramatic.”
“Only when it matters.”
She sips her tea. Keeps it down.
Progress.
And as I watch her sit there in my kitchen — safe, irritated, alive — something settles with quiet certainty.
Last night didn’t change everything.
But it changed enough.
And whatever this is between us?
It’s happening whether I want it to or not.