Page 89 of The One Night Dash
Dash
It’s not big, Pembrooke. It’s fucking huge.
When I wake,I’m facedown on my phone, the screen black and dead. My cheeks are sticky, lashes clumped from tears I don’t even remember crying myself to sleep, though. My two cats are pressed against me like little heaters; one tucked behind my knees, the other curled against my ribs. Angel souls. I believe it. No one could ever convince me otherwise, because when I was at my ugliest, my soggiest, my snottiest, they stayed. They didn’t flinch. They … stayed.
“I have to pee and find my charger,” I whisper, easing out from their warm little fortress without disturbing them further.
The bathroom light is harsh, too white, but I need to wash my face, brush my teeth, and start to get myself together so that maybe I can figure out how to fix the situation I handled all wrong. But that, to me, feels a lot like laying under a bus and deciding now’s the time to look both ways. Still, I need to push forward.
I take a quick, lukewarm shower, rinsing away enough of the ache to stand. I change into my oldest Hayward T-shirt, threadbare from years of washing, and Dash’s boxers, tying them with a hair tie, hoping to feel him like his text said. Stupid on my part because it makes my chest crack open all over again.
My eyes sting, and my throat tightens. I sniff back the pending tears, forbidding myself from giving in to another breakdown so soon.
I need tea—something gentle, something to lull me back to sleep. Chamomile, lavender, something cozy and safe. But whenI open my cupboard, it’s empty. Of course. So I pad downstairs to the bookstore kitchen, bare feet against cool wood.
And that’s when I see him.
Dash is crammed onto one of the love seats, all six feet plus of him folded awkwardly, like someone dropped a giant into a dollhouse. His long legs are bent, one arm dangling off the side, the other curved protectively around his chest. AHarry Potterbook rests against him, pages bent where it’s fallen open. I wonder if it’s his comfort book. That thought makes my eyes burn, too.
His lashes are dark crescents against his cheeks, his mouth soft in sleep. He looks … young like this. Unburdened. Breakable.
I have to look away, or I will cry.
I warm water enough for two cups of tea, just in case he wants some, and grab the chamomile lavender decaf. I make the tea quietly, careful not to disturb the moment.
Watching him breathe, watching the rise and fall of his chest, it hits me with full force again. I love him. I love him, and I don’t just want him. I wantus.A team. A we.
When the kettle clicks off, I finally move toward him, crouching down so my face is level with his. I brush a stray curl off his forehead, whisper-soft, and his eyes blink open—hazy, confused, then locked right on me.
“You can’t sleep like this,” I murmur, trying to smile even though my throat is thick. “You’ve got practice in the morning. You’ll be sore.”
His eyes plead with me before his voice even comes, so raw I nearly cry again.
“Please don’t make me leave.”
I swallow hard, nodding once. “Okay. Then come upstairs.”
He follows, still sleepy, still folded into himself, but when we reach my room and I crawl into bed, he doesn’t hesitate. Heslides in behind me, one arm around my waist, the other curling under my pillow. No sex, no expectations, just warmth. Just him and me, fitting together like maybe we always should have.
And for the first time in forever, I fall asleep wrapped in something that feels safe. Something that feels like home.
The first thingI feel is his warmth—his arm slung heavy over my waist, his breath slow against the back of my neck. The second thing I feel is grateful. Grateful to my girls for being who they are and unknowingly pulling me out of a downward spiral. Grateful for Dash because he left but didn’t leave. Grateful for timing because had he pursued me in college, I would never have been ready. I’m barely there now. Dash Sterling is in my bed. Not because we had sex, but because he stayed. Because I let him.
I turn carefully, blinking in the early light sneaking past my curtains. His hair is a mess, his mouth parted just enough to look boyish, his lashes still fanned dark against his cheeks. For a second, I just watch him. Commit it to memory.
When his eyes finally flutter open, I whisper, “You need breakfast. Protein bowls. Across the street at Crosby’s Bean.”
He groans softly and tries to fall back asleep, but I don’t let him burrow back down.
“Nope. Don’t even try. You’ve got practice, and I’ve got a week to get back on track. Crosby’s Bean now, Sterling.”
His sleepy smile is worth the exertion of my bossiness this early on a Sunday morning.
After just the appropriate amount of kitty cuddles, we both tug on clothes. He pulls on the sweats he changed into after the trot, but before brunch. Me, joggers over the boxers.
We brush our teeth. I have a spare for impromptu sleepovers with Sofie’s occasional crash when she needs to smell books and not whatever billionaires’ homes smell like.
We walk through the shop, and he looks around at all the shelves, eyes smiling, and I love that he loves books. I remind myself to ask him ifSorcerer’s Stoneis his comfort read.
