Page 63 of Deal Breaker
“And I was right. I stole the whole duvet in the middle of the night. Along with your hoodie.”
He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “I froze for three hours.”
We sit in that memory for a minute, warmed by it, then I lie back against the pillows, and without asking, he does too.
We don’t touch. We just stare up at the ceiling, like maybe we’ll find the answers up there.
After a while, his fingers find mine. At first, just a small brush of his pinky against mine, but then I lace my fingers through his. I shiver when his thumb sweeps gently across the back of my hand.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I whisper.
“Me too,” he says. “I’m not ready to let you go again.”
I close my eyes, afraid that if I speak, I’ll say too much, and even though I want this—him—more than I can explain, I’m still terrified of what happens when the secret I’m keeping finally finds the light. But right now, in this bed, in this small, quiet space carved out of a mountain town far from everything real—he’s here. With me. And for tonight, maybe that’s enough.
“Can I stay here tonight?” he asks.
I nod once. “Yeah. You can.”
His shoulders ease, just barely. Like even though he knew the answer, part of him still needed to hear it.
We move slowly. He stands beside the bed and draws back the covers, and I slip beneath them as he turns off theoverhead light, the room dark now with just a sliver of moonlight slicing through the midnight sky through the sheer curtains.
He kicks off his shoes and then pulls his shirt over his head and sets it neatly on the chair in the corner before unbuttoning his jeans. He undresses quietly, his movements slow and controlled. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before, and I guess we have, in another lifetime.
My breath catches. The sight of him—half-dressed and standing in the soft light in only his boxer briefs—is incredible. His body is all sharp planes and defined muscle, broad across the shoulders, cut down his stomach. There’s a fine dusting of hair covering his pecs and leading into his navy boxer briefs. He runs a hand through his thick hair, his jaw flexing just slightly as he glances at the bed, and at me.
I don’t look away. Not this time.
There is meaning in this moment, like something sacred is passing between us. Not just lust. Not even longing. Just the aching, quiet awe of seeing someone you never stopped loving in their most unguarded form.
Ford climbs into bed beside me without a word, the mattress shifting under his weight, and I draw the covers up over both of us, my heart pounding in my chest like I’ve been holding my breath since the day I left him.
And then we’re here…side by side with only inches between us.
I lie on my side, facing the window, and then, softly, hesitantly, he says, “I think about it sometimes.”
“Think about what?”
“If we’d done it differently.” His voice is rough, like he doesn’t trust it. “If I’d found you. If you’d stayed.”
The air tightens. But I don’t look at him.
“Me too,” I whisper.
There’s a pause. “Do you regret it? Leaving?”
Yes. No.
Every single day.
“I think…I did what I thought I had to do,” I say instead.
He doesn’t press. He never does.
After a beat, his arm slides around my waist, warm and firm, pulling me gently back into his chest. I let my body settle into his—spooned perfectly, like we’ve always belonged here, just like this. His hand rests just below my ribs, his breath brushing against the back of my neck, slow and steady.
We say nothing more, but I feel everything.
