Overnight
SARAH
Cullen comes out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, and he looks good enough to eat.
Water glistens on his skin, a few droplets still trailing down his chest, and his hair is a damp mess but somehow it makes him look even better. Wild. Disheveled. Dangerous.
I know I’ve seen him like this before a handful of times back when we were still married and sharing a bedroom. But those moments... they feel like someone else’s memories now. Like old black-and-white photographs I once stared at too long, trying to remember the colour.
Back then, yes, I was attracted to him. And now? God help me, I still am.
But this time, it’s different. Because now he wants me. Now he’s said the words. Now there’s a weight to everything that passes between us. And maybe it’s the fact that he’s here in my space, vulnerable, bruised, barely clothed but for whatever reason, he looks… delectable.
And he catches me staring. His lips pull into a slow, cocky smile, the kind that used to drive me crazy in both the best and worst ways. I blink and sit up straighter, clearing my throat.
“Can you put a shirt on?”
He smiles wider, like I’ve just complimented him. “I have nothing to change into,” he says, casually shrugging, the towel barely holding on.
“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” I say quickly, and I nearly roll my eyes at myself. Duh, Sarah. He doesn’t live here. Of course, he didn’t come with an overnight bag. He didn’t plan to sleep here.
And yet… here he is. I swallow hard, already turning away from his half-naked, too-confident smile.
“I’ll go into Ryan’s room and get you something,” I say, almost in a rush, springing up from the bed and heading.... for the door before I can second-guess myself.
As soon as I close the door behind me, it hits me....Ryan and Rowan’s rooms are on the opposite wing of the house. I’ve never even been in their rooms. Not once. I don’t know what they look like, don’t know which one belongs to whom, and suddenly I feel like I’m on unfamiliar ground inside my own home.
But what am I supposed to do, go into my dad’s room and bring Cullen one of his clothes? That would be weirder. Much, much weirder.
So I push forward, determined. It takes me three tries before I land on a room that feels right. I don’t even stop to figure out if it’s Ryan’s or Ronan’s. Doesn’t matter. I don’t want to be in here long enough for anyone to accuse me of snooping or, God forbid, stealing.
The rooeatelbed perfectly made, no clothes on the floor, no personal items scattered around. It feels less like someone left and more like someone paused life for a moment. Like they’re coming back any second now.
I don’t let the feeling linger. I spot a folded shirt, some sweatpants stuffed into a drawer, and grab them without overthinking. The less time I spend here, the better. I’m in and out in under a minute.
When I return to my bedroom, Cullen is exactly where I left him, thankfully still wrapped in the towel and waiting. I hand him the clothes.
“Thanks,” he says, giving me a grateful nod. No teasing smile this time.
He takes the bundle back into the bathroom, and I release the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. When he finally emerges again, he’s dressed and, surprisingly, the clothes fit him well. The shirt clings to him in all the right ways, the sweatpants sit low on his hips, and honestly, if I let myself look too long, I’m just going to spiral again. But at least now he’s dressed. And for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.
Cullen sits on the bed awkwardly, and I motion toward the pain relief pills I had left for him earlier. “Take them.”
He looks at them, then back at me, and shakes his head. “I don’t like taking pills. It’ll get better.”
“Get better on your own?” I ask, frowning.
“Yes,” he says, nodding as if to reassure me. “It’s not like it’s a bullet wound. Don’t worry. I’ll survive and be out of your hair in no time.”
“I’m so sorry that I’m here and intervening in your day,” he adds after a moment.
“No, it’s okay. It’s no problem,” I answer quickly. Maybe too quickly.
He sits up straighter on the bed, hands resting on his lap, and for a second, we just sit there, caught in the silence, unsure of what to say or do next.
Then he clears his throat and says, “When I asked you to meet me yesterday, I had planned more than just to apologise.”
I turn toward him, my brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Close your eyes,” he says.
My frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“I mean just close your eyes. Please.”
“This better not be a trick,” I warn him, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t want me angry.”
“Of course I wouldn’t get you angry in your father’s house,” he replies, half-grinning. “I don’t want to get shot.”
That makes me smile despite myself. A small, involuntary smile. And with a quiet breath, I close my eyes. I hear a little rustling, maybe a shuffle of cloth or paper. Then, softly, I feel his hand touch mine. The contact is gentle, careful—like he’s afraid I might pull away. But I don’t. I sit perfectly still.
The feeling is slow and soft, but it sends electricity shooting through my entire body. A warmth that travels up my arm, sinks into my chest. My breath catches, and I bite my lip, trying not to let the tremble show.
He’s sitting right beside me. And yet, it feels like he’s suddenly everywhere around me, inside me, stirring up everything I’d tried so hard to keep still.
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