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She’s asleep.

Just like that, Whitley—walking chaos, endless chatter, storm-wrecked and soft—is curled up next to me in the dark cab of my truck. Trusting me with her quiet.

six

. . .

Whitley

The warmth hits me first, golden and soft, filtering through the windshield. I blink into the morning light, my neck stiff and my back pressed awkwardly against the truck door.

For a second, I forget where I am. Then I smell him—soap and cedar and something distinctly male—and I remember.

I’m in Beau’s truck. And he’s still here next to me.

I turn just enough to look at him, careful not to wake him. He’s leaned back in the driver’s seat, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted slightly against the window. The sun casts a glow over his face, softening the sharp edges of his jaw, the crease between his brows finally smoothed out.

God, he’s beautiful like this. Like he’s finally stopped holding the world up for five minutes and let himself rest.

His lashes are thick and dark against his cheekbones, and I have this insane urge to trace the line of his nose with my finger. Just once. Just to see if he’s real.

My chest squeezes tight, and I breathe him in again, still watching. Still memorizing. I don’t care if it’s creepy—this version of Beau who sleeps with his jaw unclenched and his heart maybe not so locked up isn’t one I imagine many people get to see.

Last night, when the thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the motel window in its deteriorating frame, the power flickered, and the room felt like it was closing in? I couldn’t fake it. Couldn’t out-talk it. I just wanted…not to be alone.

I’ve always hated storms. Not just the thunder and lightning, but the feeling that the sky could just split open and swallow everything whole. I used to crawl into bed with my mom during bad ones when I was little and terrified of the noise and the dark.

I’m scared of a lot of things. Not just storms. Silence. Being alone. People leaving. People staying. The wrong kind of attention. The right kind. Messing up. Being too much. Not being enough.

Maybe that’s why I talk so damn much. I fill the quiet with noise before the fear can settle in. If I keep the conversation going, maybe I can trick my own brain into thinking I’m fine. Happy. In control.

Anyway, grumpy, broody, space-needing Beau let me in last night. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make it weird. And somehow, sitting in his truck felt safer than any locked hotel room ever could.

I shift, trying to stretch out my legs without making too much noise, but my foot knocks the console with a soft thump.

Beau’s eyes snap open instantly, disoriented for the briefest second before his gaze finds mine, and for just a heartbeat, it softens. Wide open. Unarmored.

Then it’s gone in a blink, the shutters slamming back into place.

“Morning,” I whisper.

He clears his throat and sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. “Morning.”

The silence that stretches between us is thick. Outside, the sun spills over the parking lot, puddles glittering like gold coins left behind by the storm. The motel looks a little less sad in daylight.

I tug his flannel tighter around me and offer a small smile. “So…I may have accidentally had a sleepover in your truck.”

One side of his mouth curves a fraction. “I noticed.”

“Thanks for not kicking me out.” I pause. “Though I’m not above begging in extreme weather situations.”

Beau runs a hand through his messy hair, and I bite down on my bottom lip at the sight—his shirt tugging across his chest, his sleepy face so stupidly handsome I want to launch myself out the window just to get a grip.

Heat crawls up my neck. “Guess I owe you coffee.”

He glances over at me. “Coffee sounds good.”

We head back inside the motel room to freshen up. Beau disappears into the bathroom with his duffel slung over one shoulder and a low, grumbly promise to be quick.