Chapter Two #3
Her lips press together in a tight line.
“I guess that makes sense,” she yields, staring between the couch and the bed.
“I’m sleeping on the couch,” I state before she can argue.
Her brows lift slightly. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
That’s the truth. Her comfort will always come before my own.
Also, the bed is too close. Too dangerous. I don’t trust myself not to move toward her in the middle of the night like muscle memory never died. I don’t trust myself not to slide my hand over her skin and convince her with touch instead of words.
She studies me.
The ocean outside crashes softly. The fan hums overhead. I can hear her breathing. Shallow. Controlled.
“I’m going to shower,” she says finally, like it’s a power move.
“Okay.” I nod.
She hesitates, as though waiting for resistance.
She won’t get any from me.
Grabbing her toiletry bag, she disappears into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. A second later, water turns on.
I exhale.
The room smells faintly like salt and something floral from her skin. I drag a hand down my face and push off toward the couch.
It’s small. Narrow. The kind of furniture meant for decoration, not sleep.
Good. Discomfort is an old friend anyway.
The shower runs steadily behind the wall. I try not to let myself picture her under it, but my mind wanders anyway.
Water sliding over her shoulders. Down the curve of her back. Over the swell of her hips. Her head tipped back. Lips parted. Skin flushed from heat.
Fuck me.
My cock turns hard as stone, pressing against the zipper of my jeans.
I grip the back of the couch until my knuckles go white.
Ten fucking years and I still crave her like this.
A few minutes later, the shower shuts off.
My pulse kicks up.
A few seconds later, the bathroom door opens.
Silk.
That’s what hits me first.
She’s wearing pale silk pajamas. A loose tank with thin straps. Shorts that barely cover the tops of her thighs. The fabric catches the light, skimming her skin in a way that feels deliberately unfair.
My gaze drops before I can stop it.
Her legs are bare. Smooth. Familiar.
The silk clings slightly at her hips. The curve of her waist. The faint outline of her breasts beneath the too-loose fabric.
My throat goes dry.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but her voice isn’t steady. Could she be just as affected by me as I am by her?
“Like what?” My voice comes out lower than I intend.
“Like I’m—” She cuts herself off.
Like you’re mine.
Old instinct surges hard and possessive in my chest. I have to force myself to stare back at her face.
“Old habits,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
She turns away from me too quickly and crosses to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in. The mattress dips. Sheets rustle.
She turns onto her side with her back facing me. She establishes distance.
Grabbing a pillow and blanket from the closet, I set up on the couch. It creaks under my weight.
She stiffens at the sound.
“You don’t have to martyr yourself,” she mutters.
“It’s not martyrdom.”
“Then what is it?”
Restraint.
Because if I climb in that bed, I’ll want to fulfill all the unspeakable things I want to do to you.
“I’m not going to make you more uncomfortable than you already are,” I say.
Silence settles again.
The space between us feels charged. Not empty. Alive. Every shift of fabric, every breath, every small sound amplified.
Minutes pass.
I know she’s awake. I can feel it. The tension hums through the room like an exposed wire.
“Scott?”
“Yes, little one?”
“You said you came onto this show for me? What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve always cared about you,” I say evenly.
She goes still.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
I grit my teeth. The urge to explain claws up my throat. I bury it.
“I can’t. Not like this.”
Her voice hardens. “You mean not on your timeline.”
“No.” I turn my head slightly, just enough to look at her silhouette in the dark. “Not in a room that profits off it.”
Silence.
“Then when?” she presses. “When it’s easier for you? When there aren’t cameras everywhere? If you’re looking for a way for the producers not to find out, you’ll be waiting for ten days.”
I hold her gaze in the dark.
“I’m not waiting,” I say quietly. “I’m not running out a clock. And I’m not looking for a loophole.” My voice stays even. Controlled. “I’ll tell you. Soon. I’ll find a way.”
“How soon?” she demands.
“When I can also look at you and know you’re hearing me—not reacting to my words.”
“And if I don’t care about that?” she challenges.
“You will.”
Her breathing stutters.
The words land heavy between us.
The space between us feels charged, alive with everything unsaid.
I could cross it, but I don’t.
“If I wait,” I add quietly, “it won’t be forever.”
Silence stretches.
“So not tonight?” she whispers.
“No,” I agree, voice rougher now. “Not tonight.”
The fan keeps turning.
The ocean keeps crashing.
And the distance between us stays exactly where she needs it—even if it costs me everything to hold it there.