His hand stills for just a beat, the brush frozen mid-stroke, and I feel his breath catch before he continues, a little slower now.
“Yeah, well,” he teases, “don’t go spreading that shit around town.”
A small laugh escapes before I can stop it, lifting my hand to cover my mouth, surprised by the way it bubbles out of me so naturally. When I glance up, his eyes are already on mine, and for the first time since I met him, I see something in them I don’t recognize.
His stare isn’t just blue anymore. It’s deeper than that—oceanic and full of things I don’t understand, flecks of green catch the warm bedroom light, turning his entire expression into something raw and unguarded.
The brush lowers, and he pulls his hands away. And still, I can’t look away from his unreadable expression.
Without saying a word, he crosses the room and pulls out a worn gray t-shirt from his drawer. He helps me into it slowly, guiding the fabric over my shoulders like he’s dressing a porcelain doll instead of a foul-mouthed girl with more emotional baggage than closet space.
The shirt swallows me completely. I should feel ridiculous, sitting here in Carter’s bed in nothing but his t-shirt and towel-dried hair, but I don’t. I feel cocooned, wrapped in something that feels suspiciously like safety, and I don’t know what the fuck to do with that.
I clear my throat, trying to shake off the intensityclawing at my ribs, lowering my eyes to where my fingers are twisting the hem of his shirt.
“Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?” I ask, my voice sharper than I mean for it to be, the bite unintentional but familiar. “Is it because you ate me out in the back of your truck like some prize at a goddamn rodeo? Or is this pity? Some fucked-up sympathy thing because I clearly don’t have my shit together?”
He exhales slowly, like he’s been waiting for the moment I’d lash out to protect myself. His expression flickers, but I catch it. He drags a hand over his beard before stepping toward me again. When he reaches me, he doesn’t argue or deny. He just cups my cheek in one big, warm hand, his thumb brushing the skin beneath my eye so gently, I almost forget how to fucking breathe.
“It’s none of those things, Catalina.”
The way he says my name hits harder than any explanation ever could.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to hold onto something solid, as I force myself not to unravel under the weight of him seeing me this clearly.
“Then what the fuck is it?” I demand, irritation bleeding into panic. “You were all over me earlier, real chatty when your face was between my legs. Now you’re staring at me like you’ve seen a damn ghost and forgot how to speak.”
He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
Of fucking course.
I scoff, standing up, spinning on my heel, and march toward the door, already planning the dramatic exit I absolutely deserve. I want to slam it hard enough to rattle thewindows, maybe throw in a muttered insult on my way out, just for flair.
Before I can get there, his hand closes gently around my wrist, enough to stop me. I whirl around, ready to deliver the final, scathing one-liner that’ll haunt his dreams for weeks, but the words die on my tongue the second I meet his eyes.
He looks tired, maybe a little terrified.
“Stay.”
So I stay.
I slipunder the covers quietly, careful not to wake him, the cool fabric brushing against my bare legs as I settle onto the massive California king mattress. I sink into his bed without meaning to, my limbs still aching from the bath, from him, from whatever the fuck this is between us.
A storm rumbles outside, the rain tapping a steady rhythm against the windowpane.
I turn toward him, unable to help myself.
Carter sleeps beside me, his tattooed arm’s curled beneath the pillow, as his chest rises and falls with each slow, even breath. His face—so often drawn tight with irritation—is quiet now. The lines between his brows have disappeared, and his lips are parted just slightly, relaxed in a way I’ve never seen.
He looks younger like this. Not just peaceful, but unburdened.
I keep staring at him—this man who once looked at me like I was a problem he couldn’t wait to get rid of—and all Iwant is to memorize how he looks right now and stay in this quiet moment a little longer.
I reach out before I can stop myself, my fingers brushing gently across his chest. My touch finds the edge of the rose tattoo inked into his skin, tracing the petals slowly, following the lines. His skin prickles under my fingertips, goosebumps rising in the wake of my touch, and when I glance up, his body shifts subtly beneath the sheets.
“You’re not sleeping,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and that southern drawl that always makes my stomach twist in places I pretend don’t exist.
I swallow hard, my voice soft as I answer. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I was… looking at your tattoo.”
