Page 12 of Scorched in Pelican Point
Silent.
Waiting to see which one breaks first.
Chapter 6
Ashe
Iwake up first and I open my eyes and it's the warmth that hits first—the soft, lavender-scented air, the subtle hum of drizzling rain on the skylight, and the unmistakable feel of someone pressed up against me. All curves and heat and soft cotton. For a disoriented second, I don’t know where I am. But then her foot slides along my calf, slow and sure, and the memory crashes in like a wave over sandbags—Daisy, the storm, the loft, the impossible intimacy of shared vulnerability. And here we are.
She’s curled against me, one arm flung across my stomach like she’s claiming territory. Her cheek rests against my chest, and I can feel the rise and fall of her breath—steady, soft, and dangerously comforting. This isn't one of my one-night stands. This is Daisyand that means so much more to me and I can't answer why. It just does.
And somehow, I haven’t moved all night. Which means I’ve been holding her. All night. Her body curled against mine like we were designed to fit this way, her breath soft and even against my chest. I’m aware of every single place we touch, and yet I didn’t shift, didn’t pull away all night and that's not like me. I held on like she was my anchor in the middle of a storm I couldn’t see coming.
Shit.
I open one eye, squinting at the gray morning light leaking through the skylight. The storm’s passed. The wind’s calmed, rain down to a drizzle. But inside me? There’s still a damn hurricane. And I have no idea where to go from here.
How do you go back to normal after waking up wrapped around someone like her? After her spilling open the part of herself? How do you give that part of yourself that you swore you’d keep locked down forever? I’m not built for this—connection, emotion, raw honesty. I’m the guy who runs into burning buildings, not toward feelings.
But Daisy makes it hard to run. She’s not just warmth and wit and ridiculous pajama pants. She’s comfort I didn’t realize I needed until now. So nowwhat? After holding her all night, I don’t know how to function without the weight of her against me, without her soft breath reminding me I’m not alone.
Still, none of that tells me what to do next. And I’m scared that if I make the wrong move—if I give in, or worse, pull away too hard—I’ll break something neither of us can fix.
She shifts, mumbling something incoherent, and snuggles closer to me. Her thigh slips over mine, warm and soft and completely at home, like this isn’t new to her. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. The way she tucks her head beneath my chin, lets out a tiny sigh, and nuzzles closer—yeah, this is gutting me. It’s so trusting. So sweet. And for some reason, that makes it worse. Or maybe better. I don’t know. I only know I’m ruined. And I find it completely, ridiculously, impossibly adorable.
I’m a dead man.
My body has already betrayed me. My pulse kicks up, heat blooming low and traitorous. I'm half hard and trying like hell to shift just enough under the blanket so she doesn't feel it. I clench my jaw, stare at the ceiling, and try not to think about the fact that the woman currently half-on-top of me smells like citrus shampoo and vanilla—sweet and warm and all-consuming. Everything in me wants torespond to her presence, her softness, the way her breath flutters against my skin like a secret. It's torture. The best kind. But still torture.
She blinks awake, lashes fluttering, a quiet murmur of confusion escaping her lips. Her lashes sweep upward, revealing bleary eyes that slowly come into focus. Then her gaze locks with mine. Her pupils widen a fraction, her expression caught somewhere between surprise and softness.
I'm still flat on my back, trying to stay perfectly still despite the very obvious morning situation happening under the blanket. My brain scrambles for something smooth to say, something to deflect, but all I can think is how freaking cute she looks—hair a tangle of curls, cheek creased from my shirt, eyes blinking like she’s trying to convince herself this is real.
And I'm completely, utterly gone for her.
“Oh, um...” she breathes. “Hi.”
“Hi.” My voice is rough. Too rough. I should move. I should pull away. But I hesitate, heart pounding. Part of me knows I should shift away before she realizes exactly how much her body against mine is affecting me. Before she sees the evidence under the blanket that says I’ve been dreaming about this—about her. But I don’t move.Because somehow, even the idea of breaking this moment feels worse than the risk of being exposed. I hold my breath, caught between mortified and mesmerized, and hope to hell she doesn’t shift lower.
So I don’t move. We just... lie there. Breathing the same air. Thinking the same thoughts, if the flush creeping up her neck is any indication.
Then she clears her throat and says, “If this is a dream, I’m gonna be really pissed if I wake up and find Peaches hogging my pillow again.”
That makes me laugh—a low, involuntary rumble in my chest that vibrates against her cheek. She feels it, shifts slightly, and smiles into my shirt like the warmth of it settles her. Without even thinking, I tighten my arm around her. It's instinct, automatic. The kind of movement you make when you're trying to keep something safe—maybe even sacred. The moment stretches, soft and quiet, and I don't pull back. I hold her like I've always wanted to, like letting go isn't even an option.
She shifts again, her voice groggy. "Is the storm over?"
I nod slowly, still caught in the moment. "Yeah... it's only drizzling now."
She exhales, then gives me a look that’s half-grateful, half-teasing. "Thanks for staying with me allnight—even though you kinda didn’t have a choice because of the whole live-power-lines-of-death situation."
I huff a quiet laugh. "Still counts. I could’ve retreated into a corner and made Peaches spoon you instead."
"Please. Peaches has better manners. And she doesn’t hog the blankets... only the pillows."
We both glance toward the foot of the bed where the dogs are still curled into a sleepy ball, noses tucked under tails, not a care in the world. Peaches' paw is draped lazily over Smokey like a tiny, snoring spoon. It's ridiculous. And kind of perfect.
Daisy nestles closer to me before murmuring, "You were warm. I was freezing last night, and your furnace of a chest was my only option."
