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It’s because grief has built Rhett brick by brick.

Oh, Rhett. You were just a kid. You couldn’t have saved her.

I take his hand and begin to turn him around. “Let’s go back to your room.”

“No.” He plants his feet firmly on the floor. “I can’t sleep.”

“Okay, you can’t sleep.” What am I supposed to do? I’ve got an early morning, and I can’t stay up all night babysitting him. “Why don’t you come here and tell me about it?”

I tug him farther into my suite and over to the bed. “Do you want to get in?” When he doesn’t reply, I say, “I can’t sleep, either. Do you know what helps me?”

His expression softens, even though he doesn’t ask me what helps.

“I sing a lullaby. Come on.”

I tug him toward the bed and climb in, motioning for him to follow. He does slowly, stiffly, as if he’s on autopilot. The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he’s right there—close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

This is fine. Totally fine.

“Lie down,” I command.

He shifts until he’s lying down. I face him and start singing about a mockingbird, a diamond ring, and unbroken promises.

Rhett shifts onto his side, facing me. His eyes are open, but that blank sleepwalker stare remains—looking at me but not seeing. Then, slowly, he moves closer. Not quite snuggling, but almost.

He’s close enough that I feel his breath on my face. My heart hammers. He’s asleep—his almost-snuggle doesn’t mean anything. I keep singing, and his eyes finally drift closed.

I continue singing, but his nearness tears away at my walls, at everything inside me that’s screamed to stay far, far away from him. He smells like soap and musk, and his hair is so thick I just want to run my fingers through it.

So I do. My fingers slide through his dark hair, and the texture surprises me—softer than expected. A quiet, contented sound rumbles in his throat.

My hand freezes. Heat floods my face. I pull my hand back and focus on singing, ignoring the way my fingers still tingle.

I sing all the way through, until the end, and by the time I reach the last word, Rhett’s breathing has slowed and he’s asleep.

I should move. Put distance between us. Maybe try to wake him gently and send him back to his room.

The idea flickers, then fades.

Because here’s the thing: After the day I’ve had—Glen’s voice still echoing in my head, his manipulation crawling under my skin—having another human nearby doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It feels like relief.

Just for tonight, I tell myself. Just this once, I can let someone in. Tomorrow I’ll go back to pretending I don’t need anyone. But tonight I’ll let myself believe I do.

Even if he won’t remember it in the morning.

Chapter 16

Rhett

Something smells like sugar and sunlight. The scent almost makes me want to keep sleeping, but then it wriggles and sighs.

My eyes pop open—there’s a head of blond hair beside me. In bed.

One quick sniff. Yep, honeysuckle shampoo. Cristina.

What happened last night? Why is she in my bed? No. Why am I in hers?

Oh, shit.