“Okay?” I asked softly.
He nodded, his eyes opening to meet mine. “Yeah. Just... sensitive.”
I continued, more carefully now, my touch almost tentative. He took the washcloth from me and returned the gesture, his hands moving across my shoulders with the same tender care. There was no urgency in it, no possession. Just two people taking care of each other in the quiet aftermath.
When we were done, I turned off the water and wrapped him in a towel, patting him dry with more patience than I knew I possessed. He did the same for me, his fingers lingering on my chest, over my heart.
We moved to the bedroom in silence, the house dark except for the moonlight filtering through the windows. I pulled back the covers, and Simon climbed in first, his body still damp, his movements slow and boneless. I followed, drawing himagainst me immediately.
He settled into my chest, his back against me, and I wrapped my arms around him, one hand splayed across his stomach, the other curling around his shoulder. He fit against me perfectly, like he’d been made for this exact space.
“Stay,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I promised, and I meant it.
At least for tonight, I meant it.
His breathing slowed, deepened. I felt the moment he surrendered to sleep, his body going completely lax against mine. I held him tighter, my chin resting on the top of his head, breathing in the scent of his shampoo mixed with the soap we’d used.
For the first time in months, the constant tension in my chest eased. The war inside me between what I wanted and what I was willing to admit, quieted to a dull roar. Here, in the dark, with Simon sleeping in my arms, I could almost believe that this was enough. That I was enough.
I closed my eyes and let myself have this moment of peace, knowing it wouldn’t last. Knowing that morning would bring back all the complications, all the reasons why this was impossible.
But for now, with Simon’s heartbeat steady against my palm and his body warm and trusting in my arms, I let myself pretend that we could have this forever.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Simon
I woke to sunlight filtering through the bedroom curtains and the weight of Tony’s arm across my chest. For a moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, the solid warmth of him against my back. The trial had exhausted me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. Not just the emotional toll of sitting in that courtroom while Rosalind painted me as a jealous killer, but the mental strain of watching Tony work, of seeing him dissect her narrative piece by piece.
He’d been brilliant yesterday. Absolutely brilliant.
Tony stirred, his arm tightening around me before he seemed to fully wake. I felt him shift, his chin lifting from the top of my head.
“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” I replied, turning slightly to look at him. His hair was disheveled, his jaw dark with stubble, and he looked exhausted. But his eyes were alert, already working through something in that brilliant mind of his.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, and I could hear the lawyer in him, assessing, evaluating.
“Tired,” I admitted. “But... I don’t know. After yesterday, I feel like maybe we have a shot.”
Tony’s expression shifted and became more serious. He pulled back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look at me properly. “Rosalind’s opening was designed to plant seeds of doubt about your character. She wants the jury to see you as jealous, driven by shame about your sexuality.”
“I know,” I said, my stomach tightening at the memory ofher words. The way she’d twisted everything. My love for my sister, my sexuality, my protective instincts, turning them all into something dark and sinister. “But your opening... you reframed it. You made them see Alan as the real threat.”
“That’s the narrative we need to maintain,” Tony said, and I could see him shifting into full lawyer mode now, his mind already three steps ahead. “Rosalind’s case relies on motive. She’s going to continue to push the narrative of you being jealous of Alan, of Sadie, of their relationship. It’s compelling if the jury believes you had a personal reason to kill Alan because you’re a jealous man, consumed by rage that Alan had what you wanted. That’s the narrative Rosalind is trying to paint. We need the jury to see the real you. A brother concerned for his sister’s life.”
I nodded, following his logic. “So we need to keep showing them that Alan was dangerous. That Sadie was in real danger.”
“Exactly.” Tony shifted higher against the pillows. “The prosecution’s witnesses today are going to be character witnesses. They’re building an emotional case. But we’re going to dismantle it piece by piece.”
“How?” I asked, sitting up beside him, the sheet falling away.
“Cross-examination,” Tony said, his eyes tracking over my bare chest before he forced them back to my face. His hands moved expressively as he spoke, painting the strategy in the air between us. “Rosalind’s going to call town residents, people from the diner, maybe some of your salon clients, anyone who can paint you as volatile or obsessive. She wants the jury to see you as someone consumed with jealousy, someone who couldn’t handle his sister being with Alan.”
I felt my chest tighten. “Who specifically?”