Page 48 of Lighting the Lamp
When we finally pull apart, I keep my forehead pressed to hers. My eyes stay closed, afraid that if I open them, she might disappear. Her fingers trace soft, absent-minded patterns on my chest. I can still taste her on my lips. Still feel the phantom press of her kiss in every nerve ending.
“Stay,” I whisper, hoarse.
She shifts beside me, fitting herself into the curve of my body as if she’s always belonged there. Her head rests on my chest, her hand curling just over my heart.
“Try and make me leave.”
And I don’t because, for the first time in days, with her in my arms, I feel whole.
Chapter Sixteen
Alise
Something cracks the silence like a whip, causing my body to jolt upright. My mind, however, doesn’t move as quickly as the rest of me. My limbs feel sluggish, sleep-heavy, as the sharp buzzing rattles through the air again.
Shit. Shit. I fumble across the sheets, fingers skimming over the cotton, which is still warm from sleep, but no phone. How strange. I can’t remember the last time I fell asleep without my phone next to me, tucked under the pillow or wrapped in the sheets. The few hours before I fall asleep at night are my only peace, reserved for reading whatever has struck my fancy.
I lift the sheet, looking for the familiar red phone case I chose so I wouldn’t misplace it, but I come up empty. My fingers claw at fabric, desperate and aimless, but all I find is empty space and rising panic. There’s a feeling that something is off this morning, but the feeling quickly disappears. The vibration cuts out, leaving behind a silence that feels too thick and loaded.
A warm gust of air brushes the back of my neck. Slow, steady, and very real. My eyes widen as my skin prickles with awareness, and that’s when I feel it. The weight of an arm—thick, muscled, and unmistakably male—draped low over my waist. The firm, rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed to my back. A leg hookedlazily over both of mine, locking me in place like I’m something he means to keep.
I freeze, every nerve ending screaming as the realization of what has happened filters through my sleep-addled brain. I’m in a bed. A bed that more than likely is not my own, judging by the size and dark-colored sheets, with someone I’ve known my entire life and should not be in the bed with. I am in bed with Beau.
The realization punches the air out of my lungs, and I go rigid, as if staying still might make him disappear, but it doesn’t. Instead, Beau shifts slightly, his body curling closer, snuggling into my side. His breath brushes the curve of my shoulder as he exhales a quiet sound that sounds suspiciously like contentment.
My pulse launches into a sprint, thudding so loudly I can feel it in my throat, then the memories hit me like a flood. The heat of the bathroom, steam curling around us as I helped him into the shower. His pain was written in every trembling breath and every tight line on his face. The water pattered against the tile as he leaned into me, trusting me with all of it—his body, his exhaustion, his needs.
My fingers smooth over his skin, gently working in soap. Every bruise, every scar, every shiver. We managed to make it out of the shower, his body still tense from pain, shoulders hunched from exhaustion. I helped him dry off and dress. God, my hands were shaking so badly as I helped him pull on a shirt. I thought he might protest more or feel embarrassed, but he didn’t say a word. He let me ease his arms through the sleeves. I helped him through every slow, wincing movement until he was dressed, trembling and leaning on me like I was the only thing keeping him upright.
I saw the monitor taped against his chest, square and unyielding against skin that should only ever hold warmth. It startled me at first. This silent machine that measures hisheartbeats, watching him closer than I ever could. Now, with him pressed against me, I can feel the faint outline through his shirt, the steady reminder that something inside him isn’t right.
I hate it. I hate that he needs it, hate that it makes me question every touch, calculating just the right way to touch him, when I just want to hold him without worrying if I’ll pull at the edges or jostle the wires. Mostly, I hate the thought of what it means. The potential that his heart might betray him at any moment and the game he loves, that he build his life around, could be ripped away.
I close my eyes and breathe him in anyway because if this monitor is the only way to keep him safe, then I’ll live with it. I’ll protect it like I’d protect him, even if it terrifies me.
We eventually made it to the couch, and he sank into it as if he had nothing left in him to give, dropping his head into my lap. I remember pulling the blanket over his legs and running my fingers through his still-damp hair before reaching for the remote and pretending I wasn’t hyperaware of every inch of his body against mine.
My whole body lights up with the memory as he turned his head, and I turned mine. I don’t even know who moved first. Maybe it was both of us. Maybe it doesn’t matter because there was no warning. No hesitation. Just desperate, aching, soul-deep heat that turned my spine molten and my brain to static. Our mouths crashed together like we’d both been starving and didn’t know it until right then. This wasn’t a friendly kiss; this kiss stripped me bare, ruining any chance of me pretending anymore.
I’d kissed him back with everything I had.We kissed. Beau and I kissed.
A shiver rips down my spine, but it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with being cold. I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my face into the pillow like it can block out the memory, but it doesn’t.My body remembers the heat of his mouth. The rough scrape of stubble. The soft, guttural sound he made when I kissed him back. My mind feels like it’s spinning out of control as I try to make sense of what happened. Did I kiss him, or did he kiss me? God, I don’t know. I don’t care. It happened, and now I’m in his bed, wrapped in his arms, and I have no idea how we got from that couch to this.
I have no memory of walking into the room, of crawling under the covers, and him curling around me like I’m his tether. Beau’s grip tightens around my waist, pulling me tighter to his chest, and buries his face in the crook of my neck like he belongs there. I can feel the dip of the mattress beneath our bodies. The quiet hum of the heater kicking on. An ache low in my belly, unrelated to sleep, stems from how this man wraps around me as if I’m his favorite thing. My heart launches into a full sprint, hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to claw its way out. I lie perfectly still, afraid to breathe, like movement might confirm what my body already knows.
Beau is an honest-to-God, full-body, limb-entangling snuggler, and he’s got me wrapped up like I’m the best part of his night. My pulse trips over itself, but I can’t stop thinking about how adorable he is at this moment. The soft little sigh he lets out against my shoulder, the way his fingers twitch at my hip like he’s reaching for more of me even in his sleep. Like he knows I’m here and isn’t planning on letting go.
God help me, it’s sweet, and that’s the problem. This shouldn’t be happening, not with everything going on. Not with him in pain and me in whatever spiral this is. Not now, when he’s hurting and probably just wanted someone to be here with him so he wasn’t alone. I’m supposed to be the steady one here, not the one making things awkward and letting my heart complicate things. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to unfeel it all. The warmth. The closeness. The way his clean andmasculine scent clings to the sheets, like cedar and soap and something unmistakably him.
I open one eye, then the other, and take in his room for the first time. It’s dim with the early morning glow, but my eyes adjust quickly. The walls are slate blue, rich and cool, like a storm just before it breaks. There’s a floor lamp in the corner, casting a faint amber glow, just enough to touch the edges of the space.
Across from the bed, a massive framed jersey—his first Timberwolves one—hangs with reverence, crisp and backlit. Next to it, an old weathered wooden sign reads,Welcome to Willow Creek Lodge–Bait, Beer & Lies Since ’76.It’s cracked with age, probably salvaged from some fishing trip, and looks absurdly perfect beside the jersey.
His dresser is dark wood, scarred and heavy. A single keyring and an old team lanyard rest on top, next to a small framed photo of him and his brothers at some beach I’ve never seen.
His nightstand holds a stack of books;The Old Man and the Sea sits on top, the spine broken and pages dog-eared. Beneath it are thrillers, one or two sports psychology titles, and a beat-up moleskin notebook with a Timberwolves sticker on the front. There’s no alarm clock. No phone charger. No mess. Just clean lines, dark tones, and deliberate quiet.
Even the bedding—soft charcoal sheets, a thick navy comforter kicked halfway down the bed—feels like him. This room is all of him, a place no one else gets invited into.
