Page 128 of Coach
And God help me, I loved it.
Because this? This washim.
It wasn’t the polished, careful Shane he showed to the world or the craftsman with perfect lines and precision joints. It wasn’t the guarded man who thought feeling too much might break him—or everyone around him.
No, this Shane—this sleepy, messy,vulnerableShane—was the one who had somehow, without warning, wrapped himself around my heart like I was his favorite piece of wood to carve. And lying there in that tangle of limbs and sheets, I realized something else, something that hit so deep it mademe hold my breath.
I wasn’t in this just for the fun anymore.
Nor for the sex.
Not even for the flirting or the thrill of the new.
I wanted more.
I wanted mornings like this.
Nights like last night.
Days when he’d let go and trust that I wouldn’t run when things got messy—literal pee-covered floors included.
I wantedhim.
And that scared the hell out of me.
Because falling for someone like Shane wasn’t going to be easy.
And it was far too soon to want that much. Jesus, we’d only known each other for a few weeks, and the guy wasn’t exactly an open book. I had to pry even the most basic information out of him, like what he might want on his pizza. Getting to know the real man buried deep beneath his layers of something I still didn’t know would take forever. It might not even be possible.
What would I do if he never let me in?
How could I fall for a man who held me at arm’s distance?
There were so many questions, so many doubts. This was insane. I was insane.
But as I watched him, his lashes fluttering, mouth parted in that ridiculous not-so-tough way, I knew one thing for sure:
I was already falling.
And I wasn’t about to stop.
I didn’t want to stop.
Icouldn’tstop.
I wanted to fall with all the weight of the world and never get back up again.
Because he would catch me.
I knew he would.
Deep down, I just knew it.
I reached down and tried to smooth some of his ruffled hair. It plopped back into its misshapen place once my fingers lifted.
I smiled at his mess, at his perfectly imperfect mess.
He grumbled—a low, gravelly sound halfway between a groan and a mumble.
