Chapter 34 Down Bad and I’m So Cooked
KADE
I pull up outside Amanda’s building, the engine rumbling beneath us as she slides off the bike. She pulls off her helmet, shaking out her hair, and her posture seems different. Less confident than usual. More vulnerable.
She stands for a moment, holding the helmet, not moving toward the building.
“Come upstairs with me,” she says quietly, her voice barely carrying over the city noise.
CHAD
No, baby doll. I think you could use some sleep.
She steps closer to the bike, and I can see her expression shift. The walls coming down again, just like they did at the shooting range when she was telling me about her mother, about me, about all the ways she’s been hurt.
“Please,” she says, her voice smaller than I’ve ever heard it. “I just… I don’t want to be alone tonight. For once.”
Fuck.
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to say yes. To take her upstairs and strip away every piece of clothing, every barrier between us. To let my body slip into hers the way it used to, to make her remember just who loves her—who still loves her after all these fucking years.
I want to make her forget every cruel word her mother ever said to her. Want to whisper against her skin until she knows, really knows, that she’s worth every sacrifice. That she’s perfect exactly as she is.
But staying the whole night? That’s different. I’ve been shadows and silence, watching over her without her knowing. This would be real—me in her bed, her waking up to find me there.
And I want that, but is she ready for the truth? I’m not sure if what I’m doing is getting her closer to being ready or pushing her further away from ever being able to handle it.
Because at some point, this Band-Aid is going to have to come off.
And when it does, it’s going to hurt like hell.
It might even rip open the scab, leave her bleeding worse than before.
Maybe I’m just chickenshit. Maybe I know that I only get one chance at telling her the truth, and if I don’t do it right, I could lose her forever.
But looking at her standing there, vulnerable and asking for something so simple—just not to be alone—I can’t say no.
Okay. But I can’t stay the whole night. Just until you fall asleep.
Relief floods her features immediately. “That’s fine. Perfect. Just promise, if you murder me, make it quick. I’ve had enough drama for one day.”
There she is. Humor as a shield, deflection as armor. I let her have it because there’s comfort in that routine for her. She needs those walls sometimes, needs the safety of making everything a joke.
I follow her into the building, through the lobby, into the elevator. She’s quiet during the ride up, and I can practically feel the nervous energy pouring off her.
“Oh, no,” she says suddenly, looking panicked. “Your bike. Someone could steal it just sitting out there all night.”
I pull out my phone.
They could try. They’d never get far.
“I can’t tell if that’s reassuring or terrifying,” she mutters as the elevator dings at her floor.
Her apartment is exactly as I left it this morning—warm, lived-in, smelling like her perfume. She kicks off her heels the second we’re through the door, immediately becoming four inches shorter, and starts moving toward the bedroom.
Hold on. Bedtime routine first.
She pauses, looking back at me with raised eyebrows. “Seriously? You’re going to micromanage my bedtime routine?”
Yes. Go wash your face.
She huffs but heads to the bathroom. I can hear the water running, the familiar sounds of her evening ritual.
She’s taking longer than usual—probably because she’s being extra thorough, or maybe because she’s nervous.
A few minutes later, she emerges looking fresh-faced and younger somehow, her makeup gone, her skin glowing.
Now, skin-care routine.
“You’re very bossy for a houseguest,” she calls after heading back into the bathroom, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
I watch her through the doorway as she goes through the elaborate process. All these potions and serums, like armor she puts on every night. Protection against time, against damage, against the world that taught her she wasn’t enough as she is.
You’re rushing. Take your time with the eye cream.
“How do you even—” She stops herself, looking at me in the mirror. “Never mind. I’ve given up trying to understand how you know these things.”
She’s right to stop asking. I know because in Vegas, I used to watch her do this every night. Used to time my own routine to hers so we’d finish at the same time, so I could pull her into bed and kiss the taste of toothpaste off her lips.
Pajamas. The pink ones.
She disappears into her bedroom, and I hear drawers opening and closing, the rustle of fabric. When she emerges, she’s in those silk pajamas that drive me absolutely insane, the ones that cling to every curve, that make her skin look like porcelain.
Brush your teeth.
“I was getting to that!” she protests, but she’s already heading back to the bathroom.
No, you were going to skip it.
A pause. Then the sound of an electric toothbrush, and I can picture her making faces at herself in the mirror like she always used to do.
When she finally comes out, her hair pulled back in a loose braid, she looks soft and sleepy and perfect.
Everything in me wants to reach for her, to touch her, to pull her against me and never let go.
“Satisfied?” she asks, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to her chin.
Sleep mask.
“Oh, come on. If you get to scrutinize me, I can do the same to you.”
But she reaches for the ridiculous oversize silk mask anyway, the same brand she’s used for years, and pulls it over her eyes.
Trust me, baby doll. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it by now.
“That’s not as comforting as you think it is,” she mutters, but she’s settling into the pillows, getting comfortable.
I watch her for a moment, taking in the sight of her in her bed, relaxed and trusting enough to close her eyes with me here. It’s more than I deserve. More than I’ve earned.
And then I do something I absolutely shouldn’t do.
I reach up and unbuckle my helmet.
She can’t see me with the sleep mask on, but still. It feels like crossing a line, like stepping into territory I have no right to claim. The helmet comes off, and I run a hand through my hair, feeling the cool air on my face. I set it aside carefully, and then I climb into bed beside her.
I’m fully clothed, still keeping that barrier between us.
But the moment I pull her against my chest, everything else fades away.
Fuck, it feels good. Too good.
Her body fits against mine, soft and warm and right in ways that make my chest ache with how much I’ve missed this. Missed her. The weight of her against me, the way she automatically curls into my warmth, the soft sound she makes when she settles.
I’m hard for her instantly—can’t help it when she’s pressed against me like this, when I can smell her shampoo and feel the silk of her pajamas against my hands. But at the same time, my heart is soft, protective, wanting to shield her from everything that’s ever hurt her.
She notices my reaction. Of course she does.
Her hand starts to drift lower, fingers tracing over my chest, exploring the planes of muscle beneath my shirt. Moving toward my belt with obvious intent.
I catch her wrist, stopping her before she can go any further.
She makes a frustrated sound. “Chad—”
I hold her wrist firmly, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that she can’t move.
“No,” I say quietly.
“Why not?”
Because I don’t deserve it. Because I’m lying to her about everything. Because I’m already taking so much from her without her knowing who I really am.
“Just… go to sleep, baby doll.”
She huffs, clearly frustrated, but she settles back against me. “This is cruel and unusual punishment, you know.”
I almost laugh at that. She has no idea what cruel and unusual punishment really looks like.
Eight years of watching her from a distance, of wanting her and not being able to have her, of knowing she thinks I abandoned her when the truth is I’ve never stopped loving her for a single day, not even for a single second.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I murmur against her hair.
“When?”
“Soon.”
Her breathing gradually evens out, getting deeper and slower until I know she’s truly asleep. She looks peaceful like this, younger, without the weight of the world on her shoulders. No walls, no defenses, just Amanda in her most natural state.
I could stay here forever. Could hold her all night, wake up with her in the morning, pretend for just a little while that we’re still us.
That the last eight years never happened.
That I never had to leave her. But if I don’t go now, I’ll never be able to tear myself away.
And she’ll wake up with questions I’m not ready to answer.
I slip out of bed as carefully as I can, making sure not to jostle the mattress or wake her. She murmurs something in her sleep and reaches for where I was, her hand finding empty space. For a moment she frowns, but then she settles back into the pillows.
I grab my helmet and head for the door, each step taking me farther from the only place I want to be. I pause at the doorway, looking back at her one more time.
Soon, I tell myself, soon I’ll have the courage to stay. Soon I’ll have the courage to tell her the truth.
But right now, I have to go.
Because every moment I stay makes it harder to remember why I’m leaving at all.