Page 94 of Beyond the Lines
“Anytime.” He stands up. “There’s a T-shirt in the top drawer if you want something to sleep in. The bathroom is through that door.”
I nod, suddenly feeling shy. “Thank you. For... you know. Not being like Ben.”
“Low bar, but you’re welcome.”
When he turns to leave, panic rises in my chest. I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts right now. They’re too loud, too chaotic. And suddenly, with the clarity of a comet hitting the Earth, I realize all the shit I’ve been blaming him for—the hockey thing, the criticism—was just me finding excuses to push him away.
“Wait, Declan, please,” I call out to him. “Can you... would you stay with me? Just to sleep?”
He pauses in the doorway, his shoulders tense. “Lea... I told you, if you still want to in the morning, we?—”
I swallow hard. “I’m not trying to seduce you, I swear. I just... I don’t want to be alone right now.”
He hesitates, clearly torn, and for a moment I think he’s going to refuse. But then he nods. “Let me just lock up.”
While he’s gone, I find the T-shirt—a faded Pine Barren Hockey shirt, of course—and change in the small bathroom, splashing cold water on my face but refusing to look in the mirror. When I come out, Declan is on the bed, still fully dressed. But he’s there—here—and right now, that’s all that matters.
“Do you wear anything else?” I ask, gesturing to the shirt.
He looks up, a smile playing at his lips. “What can I say? I’m a walking cliché.”
I crawl into his bed, the sheets cool against my bare legs. They smell like him, and it’s comforting in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. I half expect him to get changed or make a move, despite his lofty words about wanting me sober, but he just lies there, fully dressed, on top of the covers.
“This is weird,” I mutter.
“Extremely.”
“Thanks for not...” I yawn, suddenly overcome with sleepiness. “...you know.”
“Don’t thank me for basic human decency.”
I roll onto my side to face him. “Can you hold me? Just until I fall asleep?”
He sighs, but it’s not irritated—more resigned, like he knows this is a bad idea but can’t help himself. Carefully, he shifts closer, sliding an arm under my neck and the other over my waist.
“Like this?”
I nod, my eyelids already growing heavy. His body is warm and solid against mine, and despite all the confusion and chaos of the night, I feel safer than I have in a while. And it feels perfect.
It’s the last coherent thought I have before sleep claims me.
Light stabs through my eyelids like some sadistic acupuncturist decided my brain needed ventilation. I groan and try to roll away, but my skull feels like it’s been stuffed with wet cement.
What the hell did I drink last night?
Memory flickers hazily—mystery punch, the bitter aftertaste of too many shots, Ben’s smug face, the stupid strip game, telling Declan I wanted to fuck it out, him telling me only if I sober up and still want it, and breaking down in his arms…
OhGod.
My eyes snap open despite the pain. The room swims into focus: minimalist décor, a few framed sketches on the wall, and an easel in the corner with a half-finished charcoal landscape.
Declan’s apartment.
And there he is, asleep, his head at the other end of the bed and his long body curled into what must be an agonizing angle. He’s still fully clothed too, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
I study his sleeping face, all hard angles softened in slumber.
He’sfuckinggorgeous.
