Page 38 of The Darkness Within

“Scoot over.” He doesn’t hesitate to move aside and make room for me. “I’ll keep watch while you get some rest.”

I should say something about boundaries, make it clear that I’m only here for his peace of mind, remind him that I’m only his sponsor and that we won’t be crossing any lines beyond that, but when Nash cuddles into my side, winding his arm around my chest, I don’t say a word. And when he breathes a deep sigh of relief, like it’s his first easy breath in God knows how long, I keep silent.

Just for tonight, I’ll be his pillow, his lump buddy—I’ll be whatever he needs.

When I begin to hum the words to his song, I can’t stop my fingers from carding through his silky, blond hair. His breath slows, evening out to a soft, warm puff across my bare chest.

I will slay each and every one of your dragons, Nashville Aiden Sommers.

I will chase all of the ghosts from the dark corners of your nightmares, until the sun is shining down on you, warm and bright, and safe.

I will be your light in the darkness, your hand to hold when you get lost and can’t find your way.

Warm sunlight streams through his bedroom window, casting a golden glow over his pale skin. I’m dying to touch him, to see if it feels as warm as the sun makes it look, but I know better. He isn’t mine to touch. I’ve also seen it tanned and healthy in the pictures Violet has shown me with her son, standing side-by-side with his best friend Nash. Maybe I can encourage him to sit outside today and soak up some vitamin D.

He stirs, his breath ghosting over my nipple, and it stiffens into a hard peak. Fighting back my groan, I sneak from the bed like a thief, stealing out of his room without making a sound. There is no way I can wake up next to a shirtless and sleepy Nash and still convince either of us things are platonic.

I’m just not that good of a liar.

Heading back to my room, I try to avoid all the known creaky floorboards so I don’t make a sound. The last thing I need is one of my roommates catching me sneaking out of Nash’s bedroom, first thing in the morning, with no shirt on. I grab one from my bedroom and then climb back up the stairs to the kitchen to start the coffee.

Grabbing my favorite mug from the cabinet, the one that says, ‘fake it till you make it’, I fill it with the steaming brew, and as always, I breathe in deeply before taking my first sip. Something about that first taste just resets my system and makes everything right in my soul. Leaning against the counter, I gaze out into the backyard, watching the squirrels and birds play among the flowers and trees.

This is my favorite time of day, when everything feels possible, and the world is bathed in a beautiful soft dew. The hours of the day ahead stretch out before me with endless opportunities to be productive.

“Morning, doll,” Tex chirps, striding into the kitchen barefoot.

He has on a purple silk robe over plaid flannel pajama pants, no shirt. I never fail to smile when I see the evidence of his colorful personality on display. Tex is a happy, quirky, soulful man, who never appears to let his struggles get him down.

“I mean, Brewer,” he amends, stopping short.

“Don’t do that. Don’t second-guess yourself. You’ve always called me doll, and it’s not flirtatious or belittling. It’s just who you are. I always want you to be yourself around me.”

“Well, in that case, might I add that you look very well rested. Must have been some sweet dreams.”

Actually, I can’t recall ever having slept better. I don’t even remember dreaming. Trying not to let my smile give me away, I answer with a straight face, “Must have been all that meditation before bed.”

The kitchen fills up quickly. Every morning, it becomes the central hub of our home. Nacho and Miles begin cooking, and soon, Nash shuffles in, looking worse for wear, and a lot less rested than I feel.

Tex whistles. “Damn, ‘pardner, rough night? You could use some eye cream and an IV drip of caffeine.”

“‘Pardner?” he repeats, but he lacks Tex’s charming accent.

Tex covers his grin by taking a sip of coffee. “No? I’ll keep working on it.”

Burning with questions, I’m dying to ask him how he slept. If there’s any lingering awkwardness between us? Did I cross a line? But I can’t ask any of those things in front of our roommates. Can they feel the thread of invisible tension connecting me and Nash? I feel like it’s so tangible it’s unmistakable, the newfound intimacy, the way I feel closer to him now, connected in a way I didn’t yesterday.

“So, this is Nash. Nash, these are the guys, Nacho and Miles,” Tex explains.

Nacho, with his bronzed skin and dark hair, claps Nash on the back on his way to the pantry. “Welcome, man.”

Miles is more reserved, brooding behind a shock of dark hair hanging over his eyes. He wears it that way to cover his scar. No words from Miles, but he dips his head in acknowledgment.

Nash’s eyes find mine, and he looks hesitant. I give him an encouraging nod, and he turns back to Miles.

“I owe you an apology. I took some of your pills. If you need them, I have the same prescription, and Brewer can replace them for you.”

“Thanks for telling me.” For a huge, hulking man, Miles is a quiet guy. His size deceives most people into thinking he’s a loud, in your face, alpha male ex-soldier with something to prove, but the man behind the stereotype couldn’t be further from that.

---