Clare
I take my time getting ready for bed. I brush my teeth, floss, and rinse twice. Then I wash my face with more care than it’s seen all weekend. Finally, I change into the silk pajama set I packed as an afterthought—the one that’s soft enough to sleep in but pretty enough for... other things.
If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.
The bathroom mirror reflects someone I barely recognize: flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hair that looks like I’ve been running my hands through it. Which I have, because my nerves are shot, and I need something to do with my hands while I work up the courage for what comes next.
This is it. Our last night. Tomorrow we fly back to Dallas and pretend this weekend never happened—pretend we’re just coworkers who maintain professional distance and never think about what it felt like to sleep wrapped around each other.
But tonight? Tonight I’m done pretending.
I pad back into Mitchell’s bedroom in bare feet, and the sight of that narrow bed makes my pulse quicken. We’ve been dancing around this all weekend—stolen kisses, heated moments, careful boundaries that keep cracking under the weight of what we want.
Tonight, I’m breaking them entirely.
The plan is simple. Wait for him to come up. Make it clear what I’m offering. Let him decide if he wants to take it.
Except he doesn’t come up.
I sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the old house settle around me. Pipes creak, the wind rattles the windows, and I hear the distant sound of the television downstairs where he’s probably still sitting, likely thinking the same careful thoughts that have kept us in this limbo.
Five minutes pass. Then ten.
Maybe he’s cleaning up from the hot chocolate. Maybe he’s banking the fire—being responsible about things that could burn the house down while everyone sleeps.
Maybe he’s giving me space to change my mind.
Fifteen minutes.
Twenty.
I lie back against the pillows, pulling the comforter up to my chin. The silk pajamas suddenly feel ridiculous—too obvious, too desperate. Like I’m some cliché waiting for a man who’s already made his choice by not making one.
The rational part of my brain knows this is for the best. We work together. This complicates everything. Tomorrow we go back to reality, and reality doesn’t include Mitchell Drake in my bed, looking at me like I’m something worth risking everything for.
But the other part of me—the part that’s been locked down tight for two years, the part that learned not to want things that could hurt me—that part is screaming.
Because I want this. I want him. I want one night where I don’t have to be careful, where I don’t have to protect myself from feeling too much.
Thirty minutes.
My eyelids grow heavy despite the adrenaline still coursing through my system. The day was long—Christmas morning, family chaos, that walk in the woods where he kissed me against a tree.
The memory hits like a tsunami. I’ve never been kissed like he kisses me.
But he’s not coming upstairs.
Message received.
I close my eyes, trying to quiet the voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like Bryn, telling me not to run from this, not to protect myself from something that could be real.
Too late for that now. If he wanted this—wanted me—he’d be here.
The house goes quiet around me, and I drift toward sleep with silk against my skin and the taste of disappointment bitter on my tongue.
Some risks aren’t worth taking.
Some people aren’t ready to catch you when you fall.