Page 57 of Broken on the Mountain
I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Chase, I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He covers my hand with his. "It taught me something. That the people who matter, the ones who choose to stay, they're worth holding onto. And the ones who leave? That's on them, not me."
I think about my own life… the penthouse cage, the constant performance, the way I've spent twenty-nine years trying to earn love that should have been freely given.
He's hadrealstruggles. Loss and rejection and failure. And yet, he can just…live.He's relaxed, present, never flustered despite carrying around heartache that would break most people forever.
He carries aroundgummy bears,for god's sake.
"When I'm here," I whisper, "When I'm with you, I forget to perform. To keep up the act I've always put on."
His arms tighten around me. "And how does that feel?"
"It's nice. Like for once… I'm in control."
"Then let's just enjoy tonight."
He kisses the top of my head, and deep down, it's not a solution. I know that.
It doesn't fix the fact that I have to get on a plane tomorrow, or that my mother will be waiting with another suitable candidate so I can access my trust fund, or that Chicago feels like a prison I've built for myself because I've been too scared to stand up to my parents.
But at least now, it feels… survivable. Like a trail with a headlamp instead of a cliff edge.
That's who this man is to me: a headlamp. A compass that points to the right direction.
Much later, we towel off and stumble back inside, drunk on stars and champagne and each other. We fall into bed, and heworships every inch of me until I'm shaking and spent and so full of him.
By midnight, the cabin is quiet, just the crackle of the dying fire and the sound of his breathing. I lie awake on his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his sternum with my fingertip.
Always,I write. Over and over.
My phone sits face-down on the nightstand, an alarm silenced that I don't want to acknowledge.
I whisper to the dark, testing the words. "This is the last time I dread Sunday."
I don't know how I'll make that true yet. I just know I want to.
His fingers tighten at my hip like he heard me in his sleep, and I close my eyes, breathing him in.
For now, that's enough.
Chapter Twelve
Chase
This might just be the first time I've hated the sunrise washing over Stone River Mountain.
The cabin at Fox Hollow Lodge smells like butter and coffee and the kind of lazy Sunday morning that should be amazing, but isn't.
Because it's ending in four hours.
I'm sprawled in one of those plush robes, watching Piper demolish a chocolate croissant with the kind of focus she usually reserves for stealing my fries.
Her hair's still damp from the shower we definitely didn't need to share, but absolutely did anyway. She's wearing my flannel over the robe because apparently that's her signature look now.
I like it.
The breakfast spread Nora left is incredible.
