Page 30 of One Room Vacancy
“Don’t,” I say again, sharper now. “I said I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he says, voice low, against the crown of my head.
I shake him off—or try to, at least. He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he tightens his grip—not forceful, just…sure. Steady.
And then, in the softest voice I’ve ever heard from him, he mumbles into my hair, “Let me hold you.”
Everything in me rebels against it. Against him.
Because if I let this happen, if I lethimhappen, I don’t know if I’ll be able to shut it off again.
This isn’t what we do anymore. This isn’t safe.
My jaw tightens. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to shove him away, to reclaim the distance I’ve spent months rebuilding. He doesn’t get to comfort me. He doesn’t get to show up like this now, all gentle and quiet and good.
But his arms stay steady, warm, familiar in a way that’s worse than anything else.
And I hate it—hate how my chest caves in, how my shoulders start to shake harder, how it doesn’t matter how much I try to resist this because my body’s already making the choice for me.
Slowly, like I’m surrendering to something I don’t want to name, I sink into him.
His chest presses to my back, arms wrapping fully around my waist now, and I let my head tip forward, eyes burning as I stare down at the sink.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just breathes with me. Slow, quiet, steady, like if he can anchor me long enough, maybe I won’t drift off the edge.
My hands lift, unsure, and hover for a second before resting lightly on his forearms. I don’t grip him, I don’t pull him closer, but I don’t push him away, either.
God, I’m so tired of pretending I don’t want this, of pretending I don’t want him.
His chin brushes the top of my head as he leans down just enough to breathe in the scent of my curls, and it’s stupid how much that ruins me.
“I hate you for knowing exactly how to handle me,” I whisper, voice hoarse.
He exhales softly, his breath skimming the crown of my head. “I don’t. Not really.”
“You do,” I murmur. “You always have…and that’s the problem.”
There’s a long pause. His grip doesn’t change, but I can feel the way his chest rises tighter against my back, my head now resting there. Like he’s holding something in—words, feelings, maybe the urge to ruin this and take more.
“Sage,” he says, low and wrecked. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
The words land like a bruise.
Because that’s exactly what I’ve always had to do with him: pretend I didn’t care, pretend it was fine when he’d pull me close one night and vanish the next. Pretend it didn’t gut me when he went back to Kara, again, and again, and again.
He never cheated on her, I’ll give him that. His moral compass was just intact enough to keep him from crossing that line.
But why didn’t it extend to me?
Why wasn’tbreaking me slowlya line he wouldn’t cross?
I told him it was just sex. I always said the right things.Don’t worry about it, Gabe. It’s fine, I’m fine.
But I wasn’t fine. And if he had looked, really looked, he would’ve known that.
Hell, I think he did.
