Page 50 of Beckett
“He put hot sauce on MREs. Said it was the only way to make them edible.”
“He put it on ice cream once.” The memory ambushed me with its sweetness. “Lost a bet. Had to eat the whole bowl. His face turned purple, but he powered through, then immediately threw up in my kitchen sink.”
“What was the bet?”
“If he finished it, I had to go skydiving with him.” My smile felt real for the first time in months. “He claimed vomiting didn’t negate the victory.”
“Did you go?”
“Yeah. Screamed the entire way down while he laughed so hard the instructor threatened to leave him up there.”
We traded stories through dinner, careful to keep them light. But underneath, awareness simmered. The way his throat moved when he swallowed. The way his hands—capable of such violence—handled the glass with surprising delicacy. The way he’d unconsciously leaned toward me as the meal progressed, closing that careful distance inch by inch.
When we cleared the table, the sun had fully set. We stood at the sink, him washing dishes while I dried, and the simple domesticity of it made me want to weep. This glimpse of normal life, of what could be if I weren’t forever looking over my shoulder.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, handing me the last plate. “For dinner. For not running yesterday when you saw me like that.”
“Thank you for not running me out of town when you found me in that shed. For not pushing for details I can’t share yet.” Or maybe ever.
He turned fully toward me then, dish towel forgotten. We stood close enough that I could see the flecks of blue hidden in all that gray, could smell the beer on his breath and the lingering scent of the soap he’d used at the outdoor shower.
“Audra—”
“I should go.” The words tumbled out in pure self-preservation. This pull between us had its own gravity, and I was already falling. “It’s getting late.”
“Stay.”
One word. Loaded with possibility and barely controlled want.
“Beckett—”
“Not for— I’m not expecting—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with his own ineloquence. “Just stay. Watch a movie. Sit on the porch. Exist in the same space without all this weight—yours or mine.”
My chest cracked open at the echo of my earlier words. He was offering what I’d given Todd—presence without pressure, company without complications.
“Okay.” The word escaped despite every screaming instinct.
Twenty minutes later, I’d curled into the corner of the couch with Jet sprawled across both our laps like a seventy-pound blanket. His head rested on my thigh while his back paws dug into Beckett’s ribs. Some action movie played—all car chases and dramatic music—but I couldn’t focus on anything except the man beside me.
The heat of him radiated through the dog between us. Each breath he took shifted Jet slightly, creating a rhythm I found myself matching. In the television’s flickering light, his profile looked carved from stone—except for the small muscle that jumped in his jaw whenever our hands accidentally touched on Jet’s fur.
“He’s never this calm,” Beckett murmured, fingers trailing along Jet’s spine. “Usually he’d be eating the remote or barking at every backfiring car.”
“Dogs know when we need them.” The words came out sharp, too honest. “They sense the broken places.”
His hand stilled. “Maybe he senses yours too.”
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t admit how accurate that was. How Jet had become my anchor in a world that kept trying to sweep me away.
The movie ended eventually, credits rolling over dramatic music. Neither of us moved. We sat suspended in that flickeringhalf-light, the weight of unspoken words thick as smoke between us.
“Stay here tonight.” His voice was rough, scraped raw by battles I couldn’t see. “It’s late. The cabin’s too far in the dark.”
He tried for casual, but I heard what he wasn’t saying. He didn’t want to be alone with his ghosts. Maybe he’d guessed I couldn’t be alone with mine either.
“Just sleeping.” His gaze held mine steady. “Nothing more.”
“Yes.” The word slipped out before my brain caught up. “Just to sleep. So neither of us has to?—”
