Chapter 21 Adela
Sunlight filters through my window in soft bands, cutting across the bed and warming my face.
I wake slowly, awareness returning in pieces. The weight of an arm across my waist. The steady rhythm of breathing that isn't mine.
Beckett is still asleep beside me, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen before.
The bruises on his cheekbone have faded to yellow-green, and there's a small cut above his eyebrow that's healing crookedly.
His dark hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles from where I ran my fingers through it last night.
I don't move. I don't want to wake him yet.
Instead, I study him in the morning light — the rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand rests against my hip like he's still holding onto me even in sleep, the vulnerability of someone completely unguarded.
I wait for the guilt to come.
The shame. The regret. The voice in my head telling me I moved too fast, that this was a mistake, that I'm using him to forget Cody.
But it doesn't come.
All I feel is relief.
Relief that last night happened. That I chose it. That for the first time in longer than I can remember, I felt like myself — not Cody's girlfriend, not the mayor's daughter, not the girl whose life is falling apart.
Just me, making a choice that was entirely mine.
I replay the night in my head, but not the physical parts — though those were... so good. Real in a way that made my skin feel too tight, and my breath catch in my throat.
What I keep coming back to is the moment before.
The way he pulled back and asked, Are you sure?
His eyes searching mine, giving me space to say no, to change my mind, to pump the brakes even though we were both already halfway undone.
Cody never asked.
The realization hits me with unexpected force.
In the year we were together, Cody never once asked if I was sure. Never checked in. Never gave me room to hesitate, reconsider, or even think about what I wanted.
He assumed. He took. He moved forward because he wanted to, and my wants were secondary.
I didn't even realize it was missing until Beckett gave it to me.
The contrast makes my chest tighten.
Beckett stirs beside me, his arm tightening briefly around my waist before his eyes open. He blinks in the sunlight, disoriented for a moment, then his gaze finds mine.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
"Hey."
We lie there for a moment, neither of us moving, the weight of last night settling between us.
I need to know something.
"Are you going to regret this?" The question comes out before I can stop it. I may not feel guilty, but I still have my doubts of what this is between us.
His eyes don't leave mine. "No."
No hesitation. No qualification. Just certainty.
That’s all I needed to hear. I feel myself relax. I believe him.
"Neither do I," I whisper.
Something shifts in his expression, like he was bracing for me to pull away, to tell him it was a mistake, to rebuild walls he helped me tear down.
But I'm not going to do that.
Because this feels like the first honest thing I've done in a very long time.
His phone buzzes on the nightstand.
The sound is jarring in the quiet intimacy of the morning. Beckett glances at it, then flips it face down without checking.
I notice.
It's a small thing. Barely worth mentioning. But something about the quickness of the movement, the deliberate way he turns it over like he doesn't want to see who's texting him at seven in the morning, plants a tiny seed of unease in the back of my mind.
I don't ask. Don't press. Don't want to ruin the fragile peace of this moment with questions that might lead somewhere I'm not ready to go.
But I see it.
And I file it away.
We lie there for a while longer, tangled in sheets and morning light, talking in low voices about nothing important. He tells me about growing up in Tacoma, about how he started playing hockey because his older brother did, about the way his ribs still hurt when he breathes too deep.
I tell him about Puget Sound, about Maeve, and how I miss her even though I'm still not ready to talk to her, about how strange it feels to walk through campus now that people whisper when I pass.
It's easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation that doesn't demand anything except presence.
Eventually, he has to leave. Morning skate at nine, he says. Coach will be in a mood after last night's loss.
I walk him to the door, wrapped in his t-shirt because I can't find mine, and I'm not ready to let him go yet.
He kisses me before he leaves — soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that feels like a promise.
Then he's gone, and I'm standing in my empty apartment, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway.
I close the door and lean against it, my fingers touching my lips where I can still feel the ghost of his mouth.
I don't feel guilty.
I don't feel like I made a mistake.
I feel like, for the first time since my world imploded, I’m actually going to be okay.
And if this turns out to be a mistake — if Beckett breaks my heart or if I'm moving too fast or if I'm still too broken to know what I actually want — at least it's my mistake to make.
Not Cody's. Not my father's. Not Judge Ravenshaw, the hospital administrators, or whoever the fuck moved Cody in the middle of the night.
Mine.
I walk to the window and watch Beckett's truck pull out of the parking lot, disappearing into morning traffic.
The unease from earlier lingers — the phone call he didn't answer, the way he flipped it over so quickly.
But I push it down.
Because right now, I need this. I need him. I need something in my life that feels good instead of terrifying.
Right now, I'm just going to stand here in his t-shirt and let myself feel something other than grief.
Even if it's only for a little while.
Even if the clock is already ticking on whatever peace I've managed to find.
Because somewhere out there, Cody is still in a coma.
And the people who did this to him are still watching.
And the timer on my temporary happiness is probably running out faster than I want to admit.