Page 7 of The Tex Hex (Bitches With Stitches #3)

MANDY

The apartment is quiet except for the soft clack of knitting needles. My hands work by muscle memory, purl and knit, stitch by stitch, even though I haven’t looked at the pattern in fifteen minutes.

I’ve been trying not to think about Tex. Which is exactly why I’ve been thinking about Tex.

What he’s doing. Who he’s doing it with. If he’s safe. If he’s hurting. If he even knows how much I give a damn.

I sigh and set the needles down in my lap, letting the half-finished hat slump into the curve of my thigh.

My phone buzzes on the armrest, and I glance at it out of habit, expecting the Bitches’ group thread or a shipping notification.

But it’s his name. Tex.

That’s all it takes for my chest to tighten and my belly to flip. I hesitate before opening it.

Can I see you tomorrow?

That’s all it says. No emojis. No jokes. Just five words that hit harder than anything else he could’ve written.

I reread it three times.

It’s not a date. It’s not an apology. It’s not even a full explanation. But it’s him , reaching out from whatever quiet hell he’s sitting in. That’s not nothing.

His message is heavy with unspoken pain. I see the ache masked by his shining eyes and bright smile, the walls he relies on for support.

And I know what I want to say, but I take a second to breathe before I type it.

Always

One word. The truth.

Then I set the phone back down and rest my head against the chair. I don’t know what he needs from me yet. But I’ll be there when he figures it out.

I don’t fuss with my clothes. Just jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, one of the softer ones that doesn’t rub on my grafts. It’s hell wearing long sleeves in summer, but the peace of mind it brings me is well worth sweating through a clean shirt in ten minutes.

I spend a little extra time brushing out my beard, taming the wiry ends like it matters.

Just before he’s due to arrive, I brew tea, just in case he wants something warm, and tidy up. Not obsessively, just enough to make the space feel like something he can settle into.

With my hands planted on my hips, I scan the apartment with a critical eye, fussing over details that never mattered until tonight. An out-of-place throw pillow, a stray magazine, and the way the blanket on the couch doesn’t quite line up with the edge.

A soft sigh escapes as I reach for the remote, silencing the TV mid-commercial.

The sudden stillness settles over the room like a weighted blanket.

I strike a match, light the bergamot and grapefruit candle, and set it gently on the coffee table.

The citrusy scent begins to bloom in the air.

Sharp… clean… grounding. It’s not much, but it makes the space feel softer.

More intentional. A place someone might want to stay.

The couch creaks under my weight as I sit forward, hands loose on my knees, heart too loud in my chest.

I’ve faced explosions, gunfire, and the long agony of skin grafts and burn rehab. But this? Waiting for him . This is a different kind of fear. One with no armor. No training. Just a quiet, aching vulnerability I haven’t let myself feel in years.

It’s scary as fuck. Terrifying, actually.

Outside, a car door slams. My chest tightens, eyes snapping to the door. His shadow passes by my window. I rise slowly, crossing to the door before he has a chance to knock.

When it swings open, he’s standing there with that shy, crooked smile that always undoes me a little.

His hair falls loose around his face, softening everything about him.

A tight purple tank clings to his narrow frame, the fabric stretched just enough to hint at the strength underneath.

The jeans are tighter than they need to be, on purpose, I’m sure, and tucked into those scuffed old cowboy boots he refuses to retire.

His bubblegum scent drifts in ahead of him, and I catch something softer underneath, floral and warm, like cherry blossoms. It hits me all at once: comfort and danger, innocence and seduction. Tex, in every sense.

“Hey,” I say, voice soft.

He steps inside. The lock clicks behind us, and the silence that follows feels alive.

Something in my chest loosens and tightens at the same time, like a wound that itches when it starts to heal, and I realize how badly I’ve missed him even though it’s only been a few days.

He shifts on his feet, eyes flicking up to meet mine, then away just as quickly.

That little flicker of uncertainty guts me.

For all his charm and confidence, there’s still that guarded part of him.

The part that thinks maybe he shouldn’t be here.

That maybe I’ll shut the door before he can step through it.

But I don’t move. I just take him in—his scent, his softness, the tension in his shoulders he hasn’t figured out how to release yet.

“Hey,” he echoes, barely above a whisper.

For a second, neither of us moves. Then, without thinking, I reach for him. Not a full embrace, just a hand at the small of his back, a silent invitation.

But as always, Tex surprises me. He moves fast, wrapping his skinny arms tightly around my waist, and holding on to me like I’m the only solid thing left in the world. His face presses into my chest, and I feel the warm rush of his breath through the fabric of my shirt.

His hair smells like vanilla and cherries, and I have to physically restrain myself from burying my nose in it.

I stand there for a moment, stunned by the need in his grip. Then my arms come around him, instinct taking over. One hand settles at the back of his head, fingers threading into his soft hair, the other curls protectively around his spine.

His body trembles, just slightly.

“Got you,” I whisper against his temple. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Everything in my body settles and loosens, like someone finally released a knot I didn’t know I’d been holding. I don’t rush him, don’t say anything else, just hold him while he breathes against my chest, the tension in his shoulders melting slowly with the heat of my body.

His fingers clutch the back of my shirt, not hard, but enough to say don’t let go yet.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

I rub slow circles between his shoulder blades, and his breathing starts to even out.

Eventually, he lets go, and we settle onto the couch, side by side, our bodies barely touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. My eyes study every inch of him, looking for signs or clues as to why he’s here and what’s wrong. Finally I ask, “You okay?”

Tex doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Not really,” he says softly. “But… I don’t wanna talk about it right now. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” I say. “Another day.”

He nods, grateful, and sinks deeper into the cushions. But after a few minutes of fidgeting—adjusting, shifting, sighing—he groans and tugs at the waistband of his jeans. “God, these are cutting off circulation to my whole personality.”

I laugh. “Want a pair of sweats?”

“Do I ever.”

A few minutes later, he emerges from the bathroom in one of my oldest pairs; gray, threadbare, and practically swallowing him whole, with the faded ARMY logo stretching down the right leg.

The cuffs drag on the floor, and the waistband sags dangerously low on his hips, revealing the top of his underwear: bright pink, littered with cartoon unicorns and glittery rainbows like some colorful sherbet fever dream.

Seeing his body dressed in my clothes unleashes something primal in me. The need to protect him. To wrap him up, not just in fabric, but in safety. Security. Something soft that holds instead of harms.

I blink, then grin. “Really?” It’s so him .

He glances down, totally unbothered. “Hey. They’re whimsical.”

“They’re ridiculous.”

“Same thing,” he says, flopping back onto the couch and grabbing a handful of popcorn. “They were on sale. And they’re comfortable. Don’t judge me, lumberjack.”

Lumberjack? Is that how he sees me, because I’m always dressed to cover my skin? “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tex pulls the waistband higher, which only makes the unicorns stretch and somehow look more ridiculous. “No one ever got laid playing it safe.”

I choke on a sip of water. “That what this is? You trying to seduce me with Lisa Frank lingerie?”

“Don’t act like it’s not working.”

And damn it, it kind of is. Not in the way he’s teasing—he’s not trying, not really—but just the sight of him here, relaxed, easy, barefoot and safe, wearing something of mine like it’s normal. Like we do this all the time.

He pops a sour gummy worm in his mouth, eyes still on the screen, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

We end up watching some ridiculous action movie from the early 2000’s. With explosions every five minutes, terrible one-liners, and a lead actor who’s clearly wearing a wig and trying to pretend he's still in his thirties.

Tex snorts halfway through a dramatic slow-motion shot of a helicopter explosion. “Oh my god, this soundtrack is aggressively 2005.”

“Pretty sure that’s Nickelback,” I say.

He gasps like I just accused someone of murder. “Take it back. That is not Nickelback.”

I rewind the scene. The music kicks in again, gritty vocals and angsty guitar.

Tex points at the screen. “Damn it. It is Nickelback.”

I smirk. “Told you.”

He groans and sinks deeper into the couch, clutching the popcorn bowl dramatically. “God, I used to love this band. I had a whole playlist called ‘Badass Vibes’ in eighth grade.”

I can’t help the laugh that rumbles out of me. “Oh, please tell me that playlist still exists.”

Tex flashes a mischievous grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Half an hour later, during a chase scene that makes zero sense and involves jet skis on a freeway for some reason, Tex leans to grab a soda can off the coffee table, and the waistband of my oversized sweatpants slips even lower.

I look down, because I can’t not look. “You’re gonna moon the TV.”

Tex blinks, then looks down and sees the top of his underwear poking out, bright pink unicorns with glittery gold wings.