Page 32 of Held-
By the time we break apart, my lungs are starving for air, but I don’t care. I can still taste him, still feel the imprint of his body against mine, and all I want is to close the space again and lose myself in him completely.
I press my forehead to his chest, trying to steady my breathing. My whole body is buzzing, every inch of me alive from his touch, but the rush of it all collides with a heavy knot in my stomach. Too fast. Too soon.
He feels it—of course he does. His hands loosen in my hair, trailing downward until they fall away completely. He steps back, as though distance is the only thing holding him together.
“Damn it.” He drags a hand down his face, his shoulders lifting and dropping in a rough attempt to shake off the last few seconds. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
The words cut deeper than I expect, hollowing me out. Sorry. Like the kiss we just shared was a mistake instead of the most alive I’ve felt in years.
I stare at him, thrown off balance, but he’s turned slightly away now, fists flexing at his sides as if he’s holding something in check.
“I want you,” he finally grinds out, chest tight and restless, “but you just got out of hell. The last thing you need is me making it worse.”
My throat tightens, caught between relief that he understands and a desperate ache that he’s pulling away. Because if that kiss was any indication, worse might be exactly what I want.
BRAYDEN
I'mthe world's biggest asshole.
This thought has been on repeat in my skull all night, a bad country song looping endlessly while I stared at the guesthouse ceiling. Even now, as I pull into the hospital parking lot, it’s still hammering at me. The sun has barely crawled above the horizon, but I’ve been awake for hours, replaying that kiss.
What the hell was I thinking? She just got out of a marriage with a serial cheater, and what do I do? I go after her the first chance I get, acting with all the restraint of a hormone-fueled teenager.
I kill the engine on my bike and sit there for a moment, letting the early morning chill settle into my bones. It feels deserved after the surge of heat that tore through me when her lips parted beneath mine and when her fingers gripped my shirt as though she needed something to hold on to.
“Fucking idiot,” I mutter, pulling off my helmet.
Last night—after a kiss that nearly set the guesthouse on fire inside my chest—I somehow found the strength to step back. To apologize. To finish feeding her spaghetti in awkward silence before driving her back to the church, where her father waited with a face that could’ve summoned a storm.
He hadn't said a word to me. Just nodded once, his eyes tracking Cece as she walked inside still wearing my hoodie.
She'd tried to give it back. I told her to keep it. Like some lovesick high school kid trying to hold onto a piece of her. I didn't tell her about the way my skin had burned where she touched me, or how I had to take the longest cold shower of my life after she left.
I shake my head, trying to clear it as I walk toward the hospital entrance. I'm not here for her. I'm here for my aunt.
The hospital's automatic doors slide open with a quiet hiss, releasing the distinctive smell of antiseptic. I've spent more time in places like this than I care to remember—waiting rooms while brothers got patched up after fights gone wrong, emergency rooms after road accidents, and once, a long night in a trauma center when I wasn't sure if I'd make it to morning.
“Visiting hours don't start until eight,” the receptionist says without looking up as I approach the desk.
“I’m family,” I reply, keeping my voice even despite the way her expression shifts when she finally looks at me, taking in the cut, the tattoos visible on my neck. “Jillian and Harold Miller. Room 342.”
She hesitates, and I can practically see the debate flicker behind her composure—follow protocol or avoid confrontation with the scary biker.
“They're expecting me,” I add, which isn't exactly a lie. My aunt is always expecting me, whether I show up or not.
“I'll need to see some ID.”
I pull out my wallet and hand over my driver's license. She studies it longer than necessary, like she's memorizing my address or maybe just surprised I have legitimate ID.
“Thank you, Mr. Cole.” She hands it back reluctantly. “Elevators are to your left.”
I nod and head in that direction, ignoring the curious stares from the night shift nurses. I'm used to it—the sideways glances, the way people suddenly find something important to do when I walk by. My cut might as well be a force field for how effectively it keeps people at a distance.
The elevator ride to the third floor is mercifully empty. I lean against the wall, exhaling slowly as I try to get my head straight before seeing Aunt Jillian. She's got a sixth sense for when something's bothering me.
The doors slide open, and I follow the numbered signs down a quiet hallway. Most of the rooms are dark, patients still sleeping, but I can see light spilling from 342.
I knock softly before pushing the door open. “Morning.”