Page 47 of Lighting the Lamp
“I figured you wouldn’t want to sit around in a towel all night,” she says, offering the bundle. “I grabbed the softest ones you own and your favorite T-shirt Cole always used to try to borrow.”
“I knew if he took it, I’d never get it back,” I mutter, taking the clothes as if they’re made of glass. “Just like I doubt I’ll be getting anything you’re wearing back either.”
“Nope. Not a chance.” She huffs a laugh and steps closer. “Do you want help getting dressed?”
The words land somewhere in my chest and sit there like a boulder. I should say no. I want to say no, but my back’s locking up again, and my arms feel like they belong to someone else. “I don’t… I don’t know how to do this with you.”
Her brows pinch slightly. “Do what?”
“This.” I gesture weakly between us. “You… seeing me like this. I need help to get my damn shirt on. It’s not exactly sexy.”
She moves slowly, deliberately, and kneels in front of me. “Beau, I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to get you warm and clothed so you can stop shaking.”
I look down at my hands—how they tremble even when I try to curl them into fists. “Okay. Yeah. Just… go slow.”
She starts with the boxers, helping me stand and guiding them up my legs without a word, steadying me when I sway. The sweats come next as I brace a hand on her shoulder, and she doesn’t even blink when I curse under my breath as the fabric brushes against tight, burning muscle. Then comes the hardest part, lifting my arms to put on the T-shirt. With more effort than I’d like to admit, we slide my arms into the sleeves, pulling the fabric over my head without jolting my spine.
Alise completes each step with tenderness and care before taking a small step back. Not too far, just enough to give me some space, but close enough in case something happens. Her hands linger at the hem, smoothing the shirt down carefully around the patch on my chest. She doesn’t say anything about it, but the way she moves tells me she hasn’t forgotten.
“There,” she says, voice quiet. “All dressed.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, trying not to let my face show how much that hurt.
“Are you ready to get horizontal again?” she asks, a half smile on her lips.
“Please.” I sigh.
The walk to the couch is slow, but not impossible now. My legs are steadier, if only barely, and Alise stays close. Her hands are a constant presence at my lower back, guiding me like I’m still in the net and she’s directing the play. When I reach the couch, I collapse onto it with a grunt and a grimace. She cushions me with pillows, tugs a blanket up over my legs, then disappears for a moment. I close my eyes, exhausted, only to feel the dip of the cushion as she settles in beside me again.
“Here, take these.” She holds out a glass of water and two pills. “It will help with whatever pain you have left.”
I don’t even hesitate to grab the pills, popping them into my mouth before finishing the entire glass. My body relaxes, folding into hers as she wraps her arms around me on instinct. My heart stutters, not from lust, but from something deeper. Something that aches. The monitor under my shirt presses against her temple when she settles on my chest, reminding us both that something is wrong with me.
She leans in, brushing a hand over my hairline. “How’s your pain?”
“Still sucks,” I rasp, voice rough. “But less stabby. More… sledgehammer now.”
She laughs softly. “Progress.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, not looking at her. “For everything. For earlier. For the rink. For saying the wrong shit when I didn’t know how to say the real thing.”
She leans in and presses her lips to my temple. “I know.”
“I keep pushing you away, and you just… stay.”
“Yep,” she says. “So maybe stop pushing.”
I don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s me. But the next thing I know, her lips are on mine, and the whole damn world goes quiet.
Her lips meet mine softly at first, the barest brush of skin on skin. A whisper of breath and heat and hope. Her mouth tasteslike mint, the tears she refused to let fall, and the stubborn strength that kept her here. It’s not a rushed kiss. Not frantic or fueled by desperation. It’s a slow, aching unraveling. The kiss that feels like a confession of everything I’ve been holding back spills through the cracks of my mouth into hers. Her hand cups my cheek. Mine curls into her hip. Her lips part under mine, and I kiss her like she’s the only thing tethering me to this earth because she is.
The kiss deepens without warning, and I’m drowning in it. She exhales against my mouth, shaky and sweet. Her fingers twist into the front of my shirt, skimming dangerously close to the outline of the patch. Instinctively, I shift, tugging the fabric tighter across my chest to keep it hidden, but she doesn’t push. She just stays, grounding me in the kind of touch that doesn’t demand anything but honesty.
Her scent is everywhere, wrapping around me like the blanket we’re under, warm and clean and safe. Her skin is soft against mine, her knee pressing gently into my side as she shifts even closer.
When I part my lips, she follows—tongue slipping against mine, slow and deliberate, like she’s memorizing me from the inside out. I groan quietly into her mouth, not from arousal, but from sheer relief, like this is the only thing that doesn’t hurt.
I can hear her breathing, quiet and ragged, falling in step with mine, beat for beat. The low rustle of the blanket, the quiet creak of the couch beneath us, the soft whisper of her nails scraping my scalp when she slides her hand into my hair. I can feel her everywhere.
