Chapter 36 Wren
Wren
I sit up and reach for my clothes, scattered across the floor like evidence, but his hand catches my wrist.
“Don’t,” Hunter says, his voice low and lazy, like it costs him nothing to ask.
I glance over my shoulder. The room is bathed in moonlight, the soft silver glow spilling across the bed, catching the bare skin of my back, the curve of my hip. I should cover up. I should move.
But I don’t.
I stay, perched on the edge of the bed, my hair a mess, my skin still flushed and warm from what we just did.
“Don’t,” he commands as his eyes trail down my body, stopping to linger where it curves and bends. “I’m not done looking at you yet.”
I swallow, cheeks heating. No one’s ever looked at me like that before. Like I’m a work of art or something worth memorizing.
It was different with Hunter tonight. Not rushed or reckless. Not primal—though the intensity was still there. But this time it was slow. Intentional. Like he was savoring every second. Like he didn’t want to miss a thing.
I think about his hand over my mouth so we wouldn’t wake Atticus, the soft taste of salt from his palm as I came.
The way his body moved with mine and his eyes never closed, not once.
He was careful. Attentive. Present.
I lie back, letting the cool sheets kiss my skin. He pulls me into his arms, warm and solid, his hand splayed across my stomach like he’s claiming me.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice light. “This whole thing, it’s just physical.”
He doesn’t flinch.
Instead, he presses his lips to my temple, his voice deep and close to my ear. “Shh. Just relax. Be still for a minute.”
I want to argue. To remind him that this is supposed to be nothing. Just two adults scratching an itch. But I don’t.
Instead, I let him hold me.
He strokes my hair, fingers combing through the mess of it, slow and rhythmic. His breath is warm against my neck, his touch gentle, like he’s not just touching me but studying me.
He looks at me like I’m a dream he’s afraid to wake from.
And I hate that it feels so good.
Because I know better.
I’ve seen that look before—the look of love.
Ex-boyfriends, flings, almost-relationships.
They all had it at first. All dreamy smiles and glassy eyes like they’re seeing their future in my eyes.
But it never lasts. Science even backs it up—men fall faster.
Harder. They’re biologically wired to get hooked on the visual. On the newness. The lust.
But it fades.
It always does.
Once the glow wears off, once the novelty is gone, they all see me for what I really am: too complicated. Too messy. Too much.
Hunter will be just like the rest of them . . . which is why I have to keep this strictly physical—even if he’s making it impossible to believe that right now.
He takes my hand, kisses the back of it, then trails his fingers down my arm, my ribs, the dip of my waist, slow and deliberate, like he’s etching every inch of me into memory.
I close my eyes for a beat, swallowing the ache that rises in my throat.
I wish this was real.
I imagine this is exactly what it feels like to be seen, held, and cherished. To be treated like someone worth keeping and loving.
For a fleeting moment, wrapped in his arms under the glow of moonlight, I let myself pretend this is real . . . for research purposes, of course.