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M ichelle

I woke to the soft, rhythmic sound of Brooks snoring, and for a moment, I just lay there, caught between comfort and panic.

The warmth of his body pressed against mine, the weight of his arm draped over my waist, his fingers barely grazing my back like he’d held me all night.

For a split second, I let myself sink into it.

Into him.

His body was a furnace against my skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest lulling me into something dangerously close to contentment.

And then the realization hit me like a gut punch.

Our time was running out.

I slept.

Shit.

The panic rose fast, curling its way through my chest as I stared at the ceiling, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

This wasn’t part of the plan. I wasn’t supposed to stay, wasn’t supposed to wake up here, wrapped in Brooks’ scent, wrapped in his fucking arms like I belonged.

I turned my head slowly, my breath catching at the sight of him.

He looked so damn peaceful, one arm bent under his head, his lips parted slightly as he exhaled softly.

Completely at ease.

His other hand still rested on my back, like he had held onto me in his sleep, like he had refused to let go even unconsciously.

Something deep and sharp twisted inside me.

I had no right to want this.

I swallowed hard, my eyes flicking to the half-melted milkshakes on the bedside table—a reminder of the night before, of everything we had given into.

And then, like a slow-spreading poison, the dread started in my stomach.

It worked its way upward, wrapping tight around my ribs, making it hard to breathe.

Because I knew how this ended.

I always knew.

Technically, I could let myself have more—break my one-night rule, see what this thing with Brooks could be.

But it would end in hurt.

It always did.

My brother’s shit, my family’s never-ending cycle of destruction, my life that I had worked too damn hard to control—none of it was made for happy endings.

And if anyone deserved one, it was him.

I refused to let my life touch his.

I carefully slid out from under his arm, rolling onto my feet before my panic could drown me completely.

The air in the room was too thick, my skin too hot, a leftover reminder of the night before. I needed a shower.

I needed a second to pull myself back together.

I made my way to the bathroom, starting the water scalding hot, my hands shaking slightly as I wiped off the remnants of last night’s makeup.

I avoided my own reflection. I focused on the things I had to do today. Study. Work. Ignore the ache in my chest.

It worked for about two minutes.

Then the weight of saying goodbye slammed into me, hard and unforgiving, pressing against my ribs until I could barely breathe.

I let the water pound against my face, hoping it would wash the feeling away.

Then I felt the curtain move. I knew he was there before he even spoke. His presence was too big, too consuming. And then, that voice.

Sleep-filled, rough, low.

"May I join you?"

The words were simple, but the way he said them—deep, slow, almost reverent—sent shivers down my spine.

I turned toward him as he stepped in, the steam curling around his broad, naked frame, water sliding over his chest, his abs, his strong hands as he reached for me.

He cupped my face, tilted my chin up, and kissed me like he already knew I was trying to pull away.

Like he wouldn’t let me.

He pressed me back against the tile, the warmth of his body melting into mine, his hands sliding down my hips, gripping me tight. I tilted my head back, deepening the kiss, drinking in the way he tasted—like sleep and warmth and something addicting.

His cock pressed against my stomach, hard and already demanding, and a desperate sound left my throat before I could stop it.

"Christ, Michelle."

I could get lost in this.

I wanted to get lost in this.

"Let me clean you."

I didn’t fight it. I grabbed the soap, lathering my hands before dragging them over his shoulders, down the hard lines of his chest, over the ridges of his abs.

His skin was hot beneath my fingers, every muscle taut, his body humming with tension.

He didn’t look away.

He watched me, his jaw tight, his breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls as I moved lower, dragging my fingers slowly down his hips, over his cock.

He sucked in a breath, his hand finding my hip, gripping harder.

I stroked him slowly, teasing, enjoying the way his muscles locked, the way his chest rose and fell faster.

Then I let go.

He growled, the sound low and deadly, and before I could blink, he had me spun around, my back pressing against his chest.

"My turn to clean you."

"Fuck yeah."

His hands moved over me, slow, teasing, mapping me out like he was committing me to memory.

When he reached for the shampoo, telling me to turn around, I almost laughed.

Then his fingers slid into my hair, working through the strands so gently, and my throat went tight.

Because this felt different.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was care.

And fuck, that made it worse.

My chest ached, something uncomfortable and sharp pressing against my ribs.

No one had ever washed my hair for me.

Ever.

I had spent so much time being self-sufficient, making sure I didn’t need anyone, that the simple act of someone doing something for me with no expectations left me completely unraveled.

"Here, baby. Rinse."

I let the water wash over me, hiding my face, hiding the evidence of everything I wasn’t ready to say.

When we finally stepped out, when we were clean and warm and wrapped up in each other, I knew I had to get out of there.

But I didn’t move.

Because Brooks pulled me into him, spooning me, pressing his face against my neck, his arms wrapped tight around my body.

"Let’s sleep, Mitch."

I barely whispered, "What happened to all night?"

"You need to sleep." He hugged me closer, his breath warm against my skin. "Now stop talking."

He kissed my neck and let out such a contented sigh. I forced my mind to stop thinking about him. It was difficult though. The man knew how exhausted I was and chose to sleep next to me instead of us pleasuring each other all night.

Who did that?

People who care.

The entire concept of ‘people who care’ terrified me, because the power those people had meant they could hurt and destroy me. Like my goddamn family. I released a heavy sigh and wished I had a switch in my brain that I could flip off so my thoughts would stop. But I couldn’t get what I wanted.

“I can hear you thinking,” Brooks mumbled into my neck. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He shuffled his position, placed a hand on my hip and traced circles on it. “Focus on my fingers touching you rather than whatever is bothering you.”

“Stop,” I blurted out.

He froze and became stiff as a board, and I swallowed down my guilt and spoke to the dark side of the room rather than facing him. “No, I meant…you’re being so fucking kind and wonderful. It’s messing with me. I’ve never thought about what-ifs, but now? I can’t seem to stop.”

“What kind of what-ifs?” he asked softly, starting to make the circle on my skin again.

“Like, what if we did see each other besides this morning? What if we do, and it ends horribly, and I can’t recover? Or what if you distract me from my plan? Or my family…god, if they somehow get near you, they’ll sink their claws in and try to get money out of you in any way possible.” I took a breath and hated how my hands shook. Brooks tightened his grip around my waist and pulled me closer into his embrace. “See? This. You being you is making my rules fuzzy.”

“If we’re being honest, I will admit this was my plan.”

“To confuse me?”

“To show you how good we could be together. To have you give me a real chance.” He kissed my neck again. “I really did want to just be a supportive friend to you and show you a good time, but that’s really hard when we’re in the same room together.”

I chuckled.

“Because I know how you look naked,” he added.

“Yes, I got that, B.”

He sighed and was quiet for a minute before he lowered his voice into a whisper. “I would never want to distract you from your plan or goals, Mitch, but I don’t think we need to end whatever is between us. We can still hang out, on your terms, and be together.”

“Just to see how it goes. No promises?”

He tensed. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is. Trust me.” I relaxed into his embrace, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time. “So no goodbyes tomorrow.”

“Correct.” He kissed below my ear. “Fuck, that makes me happy. I was dreading it but trying to act cool.”

“Me too.”

There. I’d admitted the truth and hadn’t burst into flames at telling him part of how I was feeling, and it felt…good. Weird, but good. And with that, I had one of the best nights of sleep in weeks.

* * *

I woke up cold.

My body immediately tensed, arms stretching across the bed, searching for warmth that wasn’t there. My fingers met nothing but sheets. My stomach dropped.

The harsh morning light cut through the small opening in the curtains, slashing golden beams across the rumpled comforter. I lifted a hand to shield my face, blinking against the brightness, my chest already tightening before my brain fully caught up.

Something felt wrong.

Something felt off.

And then I saw him

Brooks stood near the bathroom, fully dressed, his hair still damp from our shoulder together, his shoulders tense.

I went ice cold.

He’s sneaking out.

After all that happened. After everything I shared. I wanted to throw up.

The night flashed in my mind, piece by piece—the way he touched me like he never wanted to stop, the way he pulled me close in his sleep, the way his lips traced my skin like he needed me just as much as I needed him.

And now?

Now, he was standing there, dressed and ready to leave, not even looking at me.

Oh my God.

I felt exposed, like I’d handed him too much, and now he was running before he had to deal with it. My pulse spiked, my breath coming faster, shallower, the familiar weight of panic pressing down on my chest.

I could feel it creeping in, that choking, smothering sense of inevitability.

This is why I didn’t do this.

This is why I didn’t let people in.

This is why I set rules.

Had I really been so stupid to think this time was different?

I swallowed against the lump in my throat, debating my next move. Did I confront him?

Or did I pretend I was still sleeping, give him the easy out he so clearly wanted?

A sharp ache settled in my ribs at the thought.

Was I just a piece of ass to him?

Like all the other guys had been to me?

Wow, Karma. Well done.

My chest squeezed painfully, my thoughts spiraling fast, my fingers gripping the sheets like I needed something solid to hold onto.

How dare he?

How dare he pull me closer, break down my defenses, only to leave the second the sun came up? I slammed my eyes shut as he moved toward the bed, trying to regain control, trying to breathe past the panic, the anger, the sting of regret clawing its way up my throat.

I could feel him now. Sitting on the edge of the bed.

His large, warm hands landed on my calves, gentle, cautious.

I tensed.

I just wanted him to leave so I could get on with my life, so I could start patching myself back together.

But then he spoke.

“Mitch, hey, you awake?”

I clenched my jaw, forcing my voice to stay level.

"Yes." It came out tight, clipped.

I didn’t open my eyes, didn’t move, but I felt him scoot closer. Felt his hand slide up, his palm warm as he cupped my face.

My eyes snapped open, and when I finally looked at him, my breath stuttered.

His expression wasn’t cold. It wasn’t distant, or detached, or regretful.

It was tight, pained.

Like this was hurting him, too and I didn’t know what to do with that.

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his brows pulling together. “I tried not to wake you when I got ready.”

Why was his voice so soft?

Why did he sound like he cares?

I fought the whirl of emotions, the conflicting reactions fighting for control.

"Fine, yeah." I forced the words out, but they felt wrong.

Like I was already losing something I wasn’t ready to let go of.

His eyes searched mine, and I saw the exact moment my words hit him wrong. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing on my face before he pulled back.

“Look, go ahead and leave,” I said, forcing myself to sound detached, unbothered. “It’s okay.”

The second the words left my lips, his expression shifted completely. Like I had just punched him in the gut.

"Leave?" His brows dropped, his tone sharper now. “Jesus, Michelle.”

He stood up, running a frustrated hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“I’m not leaving you.” His voice came rougher now, tinged with something that sounded a lot like hurt. “This isn’t me sneaking out. Something came up with my family.”

I blinked, my pulse tripping over itself.

“It’s a natural assumption,” I said quietly, hating how small I sounded.

He let out a low, incredulous laugh, his hands clenching at his sides. "Don’t make me into someone I’m not," he muttered, his voice edged with irritation. “Damn it.”

My stomach sank. Something came up with his family. It’s not an excuse.

But if I had just let myself believe for two goddamn seconds that he wasn’t like everyone else, I wouldn’t have jumped straight to the worst-case scenario.

I had ruined this moment before it could even be anything else.

"I need to help my mom," he continued, his voice still laced with frustration. "I have to go. It’s not an excuse, and if you gave me the chance, I would’ve explained that to you and asked if I could come over when you have free time. Today, tomorrow, whenever."

I’m the asshole now. The regret hit me like a freight train.

I had done to him what I had feared he was doing to me.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, my voice softer now, the weight of my assumption settling heavily on my shoulders.

He sighed, shrugging his tense shoulders as he stared at me with disappointment. “Yeah.”

I could tell that was only half the truth. He studied me for a long moment, then shut his mouth, his walls slamming back into place.

Look who’s closing up now.

I did that to him. I sat up, reaching for his hand, desperate to feel the warm connection between us. He let me take it, but his gaze was cooler now. Guarded.

“I come with baggage," I admitted, my voice uneven. "It’s part of the deal. And I’m sorry I assumed you regretted last night and were sneaking out. That was my mistake.”

He held my gaze for a beat, his shoulders still tight, still braced. Then he ran a hand through his hair, something he did when he was upset. “I don’t say things I don’t mean."

I exhaled, my stomach still a mess of knots and tangled emotions.

He pulled his hand away, wiping his palm over his forehead, the frustration still evident in his posture.

"Enjoy yourself in the room as long as you’d like," he said, already taking a step toward the door. "Order brunch on me, since I have to cancel."

"Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?"

His hand hovered on the doorknob but he didn’t turn around to face me. “Trust me.” His voice was low, rough. “You resting here and eating would help a shit ton.”

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and I was left sitting in the empty bed, staring at the space he used to fill. Feeling like the biggest fucking asshole on the planet.

And with a burning need to fix it.

Somehow.