Page 129 of American Beauty

Real life, unvarnished. No filters.

And it’s been good. So good.

But something’s shifted.

Now I’m lying next to him in the dim bedroom after his pain medicine has kicked in, and my heart won’t stop beating like it knows something I don’t. I should be asleep. But I’m staring up at the ceiling, replaying a hundred tiny moments in my head, trying to make sense of what’s missing.

He hasn’t brought up rugby. Not once.

It’s not only the silence. It’s the weight of it––like he’s carrying something he can’t bring himself to tell me yet. And the longer it goes unsaid, the more convinced I become that whatever he’s planning may not include me.

I turn on my side, studying the sharp line of his jaw in the low light, the way his lashes fan out against his cheeks. His hair’s still damp from the shower, a little unruly at the crown. One hand rests on his stomach, the other rests between us.

I love him so much.

I love him in a way that terrifies me, in a way that is uncertain if I think too far ahead. Because what if this ends again? What if we fall apart not because of anger or betrayal… but because of distance? Or bad timing?

What if we want different things?

His fingers flex, like he’s feeling for me, and I lace my fingers through his.

“You’re quiet,” he says, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Just thinking.”

“About what?”

I stare up at the ceiling, where the shadows stretch long. “Tomorrow. Leaving.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

His thumb caresses the top of my hand. “You okay?”

“No.” How could I be when I’m getting on a plane in the morning and leaving half of my heart behind in this bed?

I roll onto my side, letting my hand drift across the warm expanse of his chest, the steady rise and fall beneath my palm.

His eyes find mine in the dim room like he senses it too—this hunger. This unspoken thing pulling tight between us.

“Are you in pain?”

His eyes don’t leave mine. “Not pain. Just aching for you.”

I don’t need him to explain. I feel it too. This desire, this need, that lives somewhere deeper than skin.

My lips curve as I slide my hand farther down, fingers brushing the waistband of his briefs. “Lucky for you, I have the cure for that particular ache.”

His brow lifts, and he watches me like I’m something to behold.

I sit up and tug the blanket down, careful of his leg. He shifts for me, wincing as I push his waistband down. When he’s bare, I press a kiss just below his navel, and he breathes out my name—low and wrecked.

I kiss lower. Then lower still.

I smile against his skin, teasing the edge of his hipbone with my tongue, dragging it slow. Deliberate. He sucks in a breath, hips twitching beneath my touch.

“Fuck… babe.”

I trace the defined cut of his abdomen, fingers trailing light as a whisper, making him shiver beneath me. My nails scrape along the inside of his thigh, and he groans.

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