Page 9 of The One Bed Rule
“At least. And not just Scream—all of it. The entire franchise. I love it.” Shrugging her shoulders, Claire sips from her glass.
I can’t help but let out the laugh that’s straining my chest. “I would’ve never guessed that. Ever. I thought maybe you’d be into, like, arthouse or high brow shit.”
She presses her lips together and glances at me sideways, “You would’ve guessed wrong.”
I love how she’s pushing back, playing the game.
“Honestly, it’s not something I did until I started therapy. This is one of my coping mechanisms for anxiety—watching things I’ve already seen. My therapist suggested it, and it’s become almost a routine now.”
I nod along, even though I already know this trick.
“Emotional regulation. My therapist gave me the same tip, a million years ago at this point.” I surprise myself with how easy it was to share something from the archives. Personal. Deep.
I can feel Claire’s eyes on me, all light and golden. She doesn’t say anything but instead lifts her glass, like she wants me to cheers her.
“To therapy.” Her voice lifts at the end, almost unsure of what I’m going to do.
My glass clinks with hers. “To therapy.”
We both take a drink, eyes locked on each other, because no one needs bad luck.
Claire sets her glass on her side table and settles in, pulling the comforter up a little higher, a grin on her face. I’m thankful she didn’t press me, wondering why I found myself at therapy. No part of me is embarrassed—it fucking saved me.
Almost ten years ago, I was in the worst season of my life—a deep, dark, depressive sludge I couldn’t shake. It’s not that I keep it a secret, but no one in the city, or my new version of life, even knows who I was before this. What I lost. How I changed.
I’d tell them if anyone asked but I typically keep to myself. Part of me almost spilled my guts to the gorgeous woman next to me, but that certainly isn’t a birthday type of conversation. We’ve had enough curveballs and let downs today.
By the time I realize how long I’ve been thinking about this, there’s chaos on the screen, and I notice her flexing her fingers, rolling her wrists, and rubbing up her forearm. Looks like she’s trying to relax sore muscles.
A few minutes go by; this time she’s switched hands, and I do something I know is just asking for trouble.
“Give me.” I reach for her hand, still looking at the laptop, trying to act like this isn’t a big deal.
Startled, Claire questions, “Huh? Give you what?”
“Your hand. They’re sore, yeah?” I keep my words level even though my heart thumps in my chest.
“Probably from holding on for my literal life on the plane. And again in the car. I’m fine.” She admits this in such a way, it seems she’s trying to convince herself she doesn’t want my help, even though she winces when she stretches her fingers back.
“So stubborn,” I grunt, almost under my breath, before lightly grabbing one of her hands and pulling it closer to me.
Claire tries to interject but all she gets out is, “You really don’t... ohhhh,” before she falls back as I start massaging.
Using my thumbs, I knead into her palm, feeling the tightness of her muscles. She moans as my fingers press and lightly stretch her hands. Immediately, I have to think of anything else because I’m about to have a full-on erection while watching Scream.
I run my hands slowly along her forearm, working my fingers into the muscles just below her elbow. Her skin is soft—smooth and warm beneath my touch. I can feel her start to relax as I press a little deeper, careful not to rush. There’s a quiet tension there at first, but it eases with each movement. My fingers move in steady circles, following the shape of her arm, the way her body responds guiding my pace. It’s simple, focused—just the sensation of her skin under my hands as she sits next to me.
My hands drop, letting her know I'm ready for the other arm. She moves closer to me, pulling her arm over her chest without saying a word. A quiet alarm buzzes through me, even though I'm smiling.
Because it’s absurd how much I want to take care of her.
Nine
Claire
Histhumbwasstillmoving. Not that I was watching it. Or thinking about it. Or—okay, I was absolutely thinking about it.
He was supposed to be rubbing my hands because they were sore. That’s it. Practical. Helpful. Platonic. Honestly, my whole body feels like it’s been through it from the worst flight ever followed by a horrific drive to the inn.
