Page 115 of Carrick
I swallowed hard. “Even if I’m still a mess?”
“Especially if you are.”
And then—God help me—I laughed. Soft and aching, but real.
“Jesus,” I whispered. “How did we end up here?”
Carrick gave a half-shrug. “You fell asleep in my bed. Again.”
I smirked. “You let me.”
“You didn’t give me much of a choice.”
“I really didn’t,” I said, leaning into him slightly.
He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. It wasn’t possessive. It wasn’t performative. It was something quieter. Gentler. It made my throat tighten more than any kiss could have.
“I like this,” I whispered. “Not just the quiet. You.”
He held my gaze. “I like you too, Bellamy.”
No teasing. No filter. Just truth. The kind you say with your chest.
I didn’t kiss him. Not then. Not yet. But I thought about it. God, I thought about it. Instead, I rested my head on his shoulder. He let me. His hand stayed wrapped around mine, steady and warm. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I stopped thinking about everything I’d lost. And started believing—just maybe—that I hadn’t lost everything after all.
At some point, the silence shifted. It stopped feeling like a pause between confessions and started feeling like a space we made—intentionally, carefully—just to breathe inside.
Carrick’s hand stayed in mine. His other arm draped lightly across the headboard of the bed, and I leaned against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I hadn’t spent the last week ricocheting between rage and grief. Like I hadn’t just told him about the ugliest pieces of my past. Like Iwasn’t afraid that getting close to him would end in the same ache I’d spent a lifetime surviving.
Because at that moment? I wasn’t afraid.
The lantern buzzed faintly beside us, casting long shadows across the plywood floor. The first suggestion of dawn began pressing at the edges of the cabin, blue light creeping in through the narrow window like a secret.
I shifted slightly, adjusting against his body. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He just anchored.
“You’re quiet,” I said.
He hummed low in his chest. “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
He exhaled slowly. “What it would’ve felt like to have you in my life sooner.”
That landed so deep I didn’t know how to respond. I turned my face against his shoulder and closed my eyes. Let the warmth of him settle into my skin. Let the exhaustion of the night settle in my bones.
And I whispered, “I think I would’ve trusted you, even then.”
His arm came around me, slow and deliberate, hand splayed across my back. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just there. Solid. Grounded. Real.
And for a while, we didn’t talk. We didn’t need to.
The sun pushed a little higher. Birdsong filtered through the stillness, hesitant and sweet. I let my fingers trace slow patterns over the fabric of his shirt.
“I don’t know what this is,” I said softly.
“I don’t either.”
“But it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.”
