Page 8 of Scorched in Pelican Point (Pelican Point #5)

Ashe

I wake up first and I open my eyes and it's the warmth that hits first—the soft, lavender-scented air, the subtle hum of drizzling rain on the skylight, and the unmistakable feel of someone pressed up against me. All curves and heat and soft cotton. For a disoriented second, I don’t know where I am.

But then her foot slides along my calf, slow and sure, and the memory crashes in like a wave over sandbags—Daisy, the storm, the loft, the impossible intimacy of shared vulnerability. And here we are.

She’s curled against me, one arm flung across my stomach like she’s claiming territory.

Her cheek rests against my chest, and I can feel the rise and fall of her breath—steady, soft, and dangerously comforting.

This isn't one of my one-night stands. This is Daisy and that means so much more to me and I can't answer why. It just does.

And somehow, I haven’t moved all night. Which means I’ve been holding her.

All night. Her body curled against mine like we were designed to fit this way, her breath soft and even against my chest. I’m aware of every single place we touch, and yet I didn’t shift, didn’t pull away all night and that's not like me. I held on like she was my anchor in the middle of a storm I couldn’t see coming.

Shit.

I open one eye, squinting at the gray morning light leaking through the skylight. The storm’s passed. The wind’s calmed, rain down to a drizzle. But inside me? There’s still a damn hurricane. And I have no idea where to go from here.

How do you go back to normal after waking up wrapped around someone like her?

After her spilling open the part of herself?

How do you give that part of yourself that you swore you’d keep locked down forever?

I’m not built for this—connection, emotion, raw honesty.

I’m the guy who runs into burning buildings, not toward feelings.

But Daisy makes it hard to run. She’s not just warmth and wit and ridiculous pajama pants.

She’s comfort I didn’t realize I needed until now.

So now what? After holding her all night, I don’t know how to function without the weight of her against me, without her soft breath reminding me I’m not alone.

Still, none of that tells me what to do next. And I’m scared that if I make the wrong move—if I give in, or worse, pull away too hard—I’ll break something neither of us can fix.

She shifts, mumbling something incoherent, and snuggles closer to me.

Her thigh slips over mine, warm and soft and completely at home, like this isn’t new to her.

Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

The way she tucks her head beneath my chin, lets out a tiny sigh, and nuzzles closer—yeah, this is gutting me.

It’s so trusting. So sweet. And for some reason, that makes it worse.

Or maybe better. I don’t know. I only know I’m ruined.

And I find it completely, ridiculously, impossibly adorable.

I’m a dead man.

My body has already betrayed me. My pulse kicks up, heat blooming low and traitorous.

I'm half hard and trying like hell to shift just enough under the blanket so she doesn't feel it.

I clench my jaw, stare at the ceiling, and try not to think about the fact that the woman currently half-on-top of me smells like citrus shampoo and vanilla—sweet and warm and all-consuming.

Everything in me wants to respond to her presence, her softness, the way her breath flutters against my skin like a secret.

It's torture. The best kind. But still torture.

She blinks awake, lashes fluttering, a quiet murmur of confusion escaping her lips. Her lashes sweep upward, revealing bleary eyes that slowly come into focus. Then her gaze locks with mine. Her pupils widen a fraction, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and softness.

I'm still flat on my back, trying to stay perfectly still despite the very obvious morning situation happening under the blanket. My brain scrambles for something smooth to say, something to deflect, but all I can think is how freaking cute she looks—hair a tangle of curls, cheek creased from my shirt, eyes blinking like she’s trying to convince herself this is real.

And I'm completely, utterly gone for her.

“Oh, um...” she breathes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” My voice is rough. Too rough. I should move.

I should pull away. But I hesitate, heart pounding.

Part of me knows I should shift away before she realizes exactly how much her body against mine is affecting me.

Before she sees the evidence under the blanket that says I’ve been dreaming about this—about her.

But I don’t move. Because somehow, even the idea of breaking this moment feels worse than the risk of being exposed.

I hold my breath, caught between mortified and mesmerized, and hope to hell she doesn’t shift lower.

So I don’t move. We just... lie there. Breathing the same air. Thinking the same thoughts, if the flush creeping up her neck is any indication.

Then she clears her throat and says, “If this is a dream, I’m gonna be really pissed if I wake up and find Peaches hogging my pillow again.”

That makes me laugh—a low, involuntary rumble in my chest that vibrates against her cheek.

She feels it, shifts slightly, and smiles into my shirt like the warmth of it settles her.

Without even thinking, I tighten my arm around her.

It's instinct, automatic. The kind of movement you make when you're trying to keep something safe—maybe even sacred.

The moment stretches, soft and quiet, and I don't pull back.

I hold her like I've always wanted to, like letting go isn't even an option.

She shifts again, her voice groggy. "Is the storm over?"

I nod slowly, still caught in the moment. "Yeah... it's only drizzling now."

She exhales, then gives me a look that’s half-grateful, half-teasing. "Thanks for staying with me all night—even though you kinda didn’t have a choice because of the whole live-power-lines-of-death situation."

I huff a quiet laugh. "Still counts. I could’ve retreated into a corner and made Peaches spoon you instead."

"Please. Peaches has better manners. And she doesn’t hog the blankets... only the pillows."

We both glance toward the foot of the bed where the dogs are still curled into a sleepy ball, noses tucked under tails, not a care in the world. Peaches' paw is draped lazily over Smokey like a tiny, snoring spoon. It's ridiculous. And kind of perfect.

Daisy nestles closer to me before murmuring, "You were warm. I was freezing last night, and your furnace of a chest was my only option."

I could kiss her. Right now. I could lean in and do the one thing I’ve been trying not to think about since she crash-landed into my life with Peaches and pupcakes and that ridiculous tutu-wearing pug. And hell, I want to.

But instead, I shift. Just enough to put some air between us.

Not because I want to, but because I have to.

Because if I don't, I'm going to fall even harder for the one person who could destroy me just by leaving.

And I can't—won't—let anyone get that close.

I can't risk that kind of loss, not after what I’ve seen.

So I create distance, even if it guts me to do it.

She notices. Of course she does.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice gentle but with a furrow between her brows that tells me she’s not buying whatever mask I might slap on next.

It’s not just a polite check-in—it’s loaded with something deeper.

Concern. Confusion. Maybe even hurt. Like she can already sense the war going on inside me and is trying to find a way in without pressing too hard.

I hesitate, my voice catching. “Yes. No.”

Her brow knits together as she tilts her head, her voice tentative. “Which one is it?”

I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “I don’t know. I mean... I do. I just—” I break off, dragging a hand through my hair. “I want to say no. But it scares the hell out of me.”

She stills, watching me with those big eyes of hers. “Do you want to talk about it?”

No. And also, yes.

I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face, stalling as I figure out how to even begin. My throat feels tight, the words stuck somewhere behind the mess of memories I never meant to say out loud. "There was a call. Years ago. Early in my career."

She stays quiet, waiting .

“There was this kid. Fourteen. He was being bullied at school, bullied online. His mom called rescue in a panic because she found him hanging in his room. We got there fast but it was too late.” I swallow.

“He’d taken pills. Then he hung himself.

Like... like he was making sure if option one didn’t work, option two would. ”

I stare at the wall like it’ll give me strength, but all I see is that bedroom, the chaos, the raw panic.

His lean, limp body suspended in the air.

My gloved hands shaking as I cut him down.

The silence that followed, louder than any siren I’ve ever heard.

And then his mother—her scream wasn’t a sound, it was a rupture.

Like the world split in two. I’ll never forget it.

I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But that moment is branded into me.

It’s the reason I keep my distance. Why I tell myself I can’t let anyone matter too much.

Because losing someone like that? It destroys you from the inside out.

“I cut him down and did CPR until my hands went numb, but he didn’t make it.” I tell her.

Daisy’s breath catches.

“But the worst part,” I continue, voice flat, “was telling his mom. Seeing her fall to her knees, screaming. Like I’d ripped her soul out. That moment? That face? I see it all the time in my dreams. ”

I glance at her, my voice low and raw. “I swore I’d never get close enough to anyone that losing them would feel like that. Watching that mother collapse—hearing that sound—I told myself I’d never let someone matter that much. Because if I ever lost them... I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Silence stretches between us. The kind that isn't empty but charged. I feel the weight of her gaze, the quiet way she waits without pushing, like she somehow knows this is hard for me. Like she's giving me the space to breathe while silently holding out her hand in case I want to leap. The words churn inside me, threatening to spill again, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or terrified by how much I want to keep talking.

To keep unraveling. To make that leap. But I don't. I can't.

Then she reaches for my hand. Her fingers slide over mine, soft and warm, grounding me. “I’m so sorry, Ashe.”

Something cracks inside me and I lean in and she meets me halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. A question. Her lips are plush, yielding against mine with a tentative warmth that sends a shiver down my spine.

She tastes like strawberry and something sweetly her—bright and wild and impossible to ignore.

Her breath hitches, a quiet gasp that makes me want more.

My fingers tangle in her hair, anchoring me as I deepen the kiss, and her body arches into mine like a response she doesn’t have to speak.

Her skin is satin beneath my fingertips, soft and warm and driving me half-insane.

Everything about her—her taste, her touch, her scent—is overwhelming, a sensory overload I didn’t know I craved. And I know, even as I lose myself in her, that this is dangerous territory. But right now, I can’t stop. I don’t want to.

Her body presses closer, her leg wrapping around mine, and I lose the thread of logic.

It’s just heat and need and the sound she makes when I kiss her harder.

She’s so warm, so soft, every inch of her molding to me like she was made for this.

My arousal is obvious now, thick and pressing against her thigh, and I stop caring.

Let her notice. Let her know what she does to me.

Her scent, her touch, the way she gasps when I deepen the kiss—it’s too much.

I’ve been holding back too long, and now it’s like the floodgates are wide open and I don’t even want to try shutting them.

My shirt is gone. Her shirt rides up, exposing soft, warm skin that feels like temptation and comfort all at once.

Her fingers explore my back—tentative at first, then bolder— and I can’t stop.

I don't want to. She makes a quiet sound, breathy and wanting, and it undoes something inside me. The scent of her skin, the brush of her thigh, the soft heat of her lips—I’m drowning in it.

My body doesn’t care about fear or hesitation anymore.

I want her to see what she does to me, want her to feel how much I need her.

And right now, I’m not hiding anything. Not the ache.

Not the hunger. Not the fact that I’ve never wanted someone like this before.

Until I can't.

I tear my mouth from hers, panting, my forehead pressing against hers like it’s the only thing holding me together.

My hand shakes where it grips her hip, fingers digging in like I can't let go even as my heart begs me to.

Her breath mingles with mine, warm and inviting, and for a second I almost say to hell with it all.

But the words claw their way out, raw and desperate.

“I can't,” I whisper, even though every part of me wants to.

She stills. “What? Are you kidding me?”

“I can’t. I want to. God, I want to. But not like this. Not when I’m?—”

“You're scared.” she says softly.

I flinch. I close my eyes, and then I pull away completely. Out of the bed. Away from her heat. Her kindness .

“Let’s just... get dressed,” I say hoarsely, dragging my gaze away from her lips like it physically hurts.

"Storm’s over and I probably should check in at the station.

" The words taste like regret, bitter and unconvincing, but it’s the only lifeline I can throw myself before I do something I can’t undo.

But my internal storm? Still raging.