Page 23

I wake up in a haze, my head pounding like someone’s using it as a drum. The silk sheets are tangled around my legs, and when I reach across the bed, I’m alone. The space beside me is cold, like no one’s been there all night.

I spot the water glass on the nightstand and grab it gratefully, chugging every drop. It helps, but barely. My mouth still tastes like regret and whatever fruity cocktails Emma was buying me all night.

The house is eerily quiet, and when I check my phone, I realize why—it’s cold at this hour because it’s the middle of the night. But I’m curious about what time it actually is, and more importantly, where Slater is if he’s not in bed with me.

I wander through the house, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floors. He’s not in the sex room—God, I still can’t believe that’s a thing—and he’s not in the guestroom jerking off. God, what a memory. I finally find him in the living room, sprawled on the couch.

He’s leaning back with his face turned toward the ceiling, and I can’t tell if he’s awake or just staring into space.

“Hey,” he says without moving.

I jump, clutching my chest. “You’re awake?”

“Can’t sleep.”

Guilt crashes over me immediately. “Shit.” I rub my eyes, still trying to shake off the fog. “I’m sorry. You can have your bed back.”

He turns to look at me then, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression that catches me off guard. “I would never do anything to make you uncomfortable again, Sage. I promise.”

I search his face, looking for the lie, the manipulation, the threat. But all I see is sincerity, and it throws me completely off balance. “Okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

My head throbs in response. “Medicine?”

He gets up immediately, moving to what I assume is a kitchen cabinet. When he comes back with a bottle of ibuprofen, I notice something else sitting on the counter.

“What’s this?” I point to the prescription bottle.

“Antidepressants. Here.” He hands me the ibuprofen like it’s no big deal.

I take two pills and wash them down with the remaining water in my glass. “I presume you don’t take those.”

“No, it dulls me out. I lose my edge on the ice. It’s not good.”

I nod, understanding more than he probably realizes. “Hey, so I can leave.”

Slater reaches for me instinctively, then pulls his hand back like he’s remembered something important. “If you want to go, I can take you home.”

“No, I can call a ride.”

“You’re living with me now, remember?”

I sip my water, trying to process this whole situation. “I can’t live with you.”

“Why not?”

I gesture toward the couch, toward him sitting here in the dark at whatever ungodly hour this is. “Why are you awake? I can’t live here if you can’t even sleep because I’m here.”

“Would you rather I be asleep right now?”

The question stops me cold. I pause, not sure how to answer that.

“I can’t sleep knowing you’re drunk,” he says quietly.

“What?” The word comes out as barely a breath. “Why not? I’m passed out.”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at me with those dark eyes that seem to see too much.

“Nothing bad’s going to happen,” I insist.

“You don’t know that.”

“Slater, I can take care of myself.”

“I thought so too and then you came along.”

I don’t even know what to say or think. “What’s happening right now?”

“It’s almost 2 AM.”

Jesus. I thought it said midnight. I must have imagined a number one before the two. No wonder I feel like death. “Let’s go back to sleep. I can take the couch this time.” I walk over and plop down on the leather, which is surprisingly comfortable.

But then he’s hovering above me, this massive presence that makes the spacious living room feel intimate.

“What?” I ask, confused and still trying to get comfortable.

“Can I pick you up?” he mutters.

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he tests me by sliding his arms around my neck and under my knees, positioning himself to lift me but waiting for permission. “Can I?”

Something about the way he asks, like my consent actually matters to him, makes my chest tight. “Sure.”

He lifts me effortlessly, and I’m struck by how gentle he is despite his size. His steps are measured as he carries me down the hall, and I feel like I’m floating.

“You’re sleeping in silk,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Tonight, and every night.”

I stare into his eyes as he carries me, wondering why this feels so intimate.

It’s beyond any physical attraction, beyond the undeniable chemistry between us.

Something deeper is happening here, something that makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with desire and everything to do with trust.

Why is my heart palpitating like this? Why does being carried to his bed feel more intimate than anything that could happen once we get there?

He places me on the bed with the same careful gentleness, pulling the silk sheets up to my chin and tucking them around me like I’m something precious. When he turns to walk away, panic flutters in my chest.

“Where are you going?”

“The couch,” he says simply.

I shake my head before I can stop myself. “Will you stay with me?”

His expression hardens, like he’s bracing himself for rejection. “Is that what you want?”

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He closes the bedroom door with a soft click and walks around to the other side of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight as he slips under the covers, and suddenly the king-size bed feels much smaller.

I turn to face him, and we’re close enough that I can see his dark eyes. “Hi.”

He looks down at me, and there’s something soft in his expression that I’ve never seen before. “Hi.”

“Will you sleep okay if I’m here?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Only one way to find out.”

The uncertainty in his voice is surprising. For someone who projects such confidence, such control, he seems genuinely unsure about this. “Do you like to cuddle?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Do you?”

I shrug, suddenly feeling shy. “I guess I don’t know either. Sometimes it just happens, so I was asking if I should expect it while you’re sleeping.”

“Nobody’s ever been in my bed before.”

That stops my breath. I turn to face him fully. “Why?”

“Not my thing.”

“So… I’m your thing?”

He shakes his head, and for a moment I think he’s rejecting the idea entirely. Then he speaks, “No, you are much more than that.”

The smile that spreads across my face is involuntary, warm and genuine. “Goodnight, Slater.”

“Goodnight, Sage.”

I close my eyes, but sleep feels impossible with his presence so close.

His breathing is steady beside me, his warmth radiating across the small space between us.

I have so many questions, so many things I want to know about him—about his brother in the photo, about why he was prescribed antidepressants, about what made him build walls so high that he’s never let anyone into this space before.

But for now, I just lie here in his silk sheets, listening to him breathe, and try not to think about how right this feels.

How safe I feel for the first time in years, lying next to someone who could probably destroy me without breaking a sweat, but he tucks me in like I’m made of glass he doesn’t want to break.

I think I like him just a little more now.