Con takes Tess home. Maneuvering behind the bar as soon as his brother leaves, he picks her up and pushes his way toward the fire exit, her shoulders shaking silently, face buried in his chest. After seeing what I saw on the security camera, after what Conner told me about their past, I understand Declan and Tess better.

I go upstairs. It’s barely midnight, and the bar is an hour away from closing. Mounting the stairs, the cacophony of Gilroy’s fades away until the rowdy noise of it is barely a whisper. I think about the old place, how it was nearly impossible to hear yourself think on a Wednesday for all the drunken shouts and loud music. A year ago, I’d be down there, louder than any of them. These days, I just want the quiet.

As soon as I shut the front door, the noise disappears completely.

I clean the kitchen and straighten up the living room, plumping mashed pillows and wiping down the pristine coffee table before taking a shower. I use the same shower Patrick did earlier. His soap and shampoo. Lathering and washing, I think about the things Patrick said to me before dinner. Not just the dirty things—all of it. I think about what he wants from me.

Forever.

He said forever.

I thought I was ready for that. I thought I was ready to give him everything. That’s why I came home. Because I tried living without him and it almost killed me. So why can’t I say it? Why can’t I say what I wrote on that card eleven months ago?

I love Patrick. So, why can’t I tell him?

Because a part of me is beginning to doubt that the man I left behind and came back for still exists.

Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a towel and collect my discarded clothes. I pad my way down the hall, toward the room I claimed as my own. Halfway down the hall, I stop and listen. I hear the low murmur of the television.

Patrick.

Despite my reservations, I quickly pull my dress back on and head for the living room, sending up a quick prayer that he’s alone before stepping into the room. I see the back of his head, slumped against the back of the couch.

He must hear me because he speaks. “I told you not to bother with the dishes,” he says, without moving from his spot on the couch.

Pushing myself forward, I round the back of the couch and his face comes into view. He has his eyes closed like he’s half-asleep. I almost stop. He looks exhausted. So tired, I almost retreat. Almost go back the way I came. Almost leave him alone.

Almost.

“You cooked, I clean,” I tell him, using the towel to squeeze water out of my hair. “That’s fair, right?”

He looks up at me for a second before looking away. “Yeah, that’s fair,” he says, his words pitched low. He looks uncomfortable. Unsure of what’s supposed to happen next.

“Can I sit down?” I gesture to the seat next to him on the couch and hold my breath, suddenly sure he’s going to tell me no.

He clears his throat. “Of course,” he says, scooting over a bit to make room for me and I sit, molding myself against his side, legs curled under me. I put my head on his shoulder, and I feel it stiffen under my cheek.

“Is this okay?” I say, even though I know it isn’t. I’m pushing him. Testing his limits. It’s not my intention—I just want to be close to him. As close as he’ll let me get.

He lets out a long breath, his chest deflating under my hand. “Yes,” he says, turning to press his lips against my forehead. “It’s fine.”

“Am I keeping you awake?” I ask. “Do you want to go to bed?” My fingers flex, digging into the hard muscles of his chest at the thought of Patrick in bed.

“No, I usually hang for a few hours after my shift,” he says, totally circumventing my question. Picking up the remote, he starts flipping through channels. “What do you want to watch?”

“Reality Rapper Bachelor Housewives,” I say, and like I’d hoped he laughed at our inside joke.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he tells me, the tension between us melting away. “Where are you at in the season?”

“I haven’t watched TV since I left,” I tell him. “We only have one television in the house, and it’s Paw Patrol and Bubble Guppies all day, every day.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Well, if Grace and Molly make the move to Boston, you’ll be hip deep in grilled cheese and Nick Jr. in no time flat,” I say a moment before I realize what I’m implying. That he’ll be around. That we’ll be together.

His face slides into a crooked smile, the corner of his mouth inching up enough to show that lickable dimple of his. “Sounds fun.”

Using the remote, he cues up the DVR and selects the reality show I’ve forced him to watch since I moved in. There are over twenty episodes saved. “That Tanya bitch found out her assistant is—”

“You kept recording my shows after I left?”

“Sure,” he says, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a crooked grin. “Why wouldn’t I?”

For a second, everything melts away. The doubt and the differences. For a second, when I look up at him, he’s Patrick again. My Patrick. “Thank you.”

He tips his face down to look at me. “You’re welcome,” he says, his gaze drifting over my face like it did at Benny’s like he’s trying to convince himself that this is real. That we’re together.

“I missed you,” I tell him and he smiles again, angling his neck to bring our lips close enough to kiss me.

“I’m glad.” He says it against my mouth, and I laugh.

“You weren’t kidding—” I lean back a little, catching his gaze with mine before I smile. “you’re kind of a dick these days.”

“You love it.” He presses his lips against the soft underside of my jaw. I can feel the wicked curve of them against my skin. “Historically speaking, you have a thing for assholes.”

“Just the one,” I whisper, my lashes fluttering against my cheeks when I feel his mouth against the pulse pounding in my throat. “Patrick...” I say his name as his mouth slides over mine. The moment our lips touch, a moan pushes its way through my chest, and I open my mouth to set it free, moaning again when his tongue licks and swirls against mine. “Is this okay?” I ask between kisses, hand fisted in his shirt, desperate to keep his mouth and hands on me. I don’t care if this is okay or not. This is happening. I’ve waited too long to have him against me. Inside me.

“No,” he says, turning his mouth away from mine. “This is pretty fucking far from okay...” I can feel his control slipping, bit by bit, the press of his mouth growing heavy. Desperate. His hands slide up, threading fingers through my hair, gripping tight, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his open mouth. He closes it over the place where my shoulder meets my neck, sucking hard and I cry out, the stinging pleasure of it shooting straight down my spine. One of his hands slides down my throat, caressing my breast before falling to my thigh, his fingers pushing up the hem of my dress until it’s bunched around my hip. “I need to stop.” Even as he says it, his fingertips coast up the inside of my thigh, gliding over my feverish skin, closer and closer to my slick heat. He drops his head to my shoulder, his warm breath, harsh and fast, against my neck. “Tell me to stop.”

I whimper in response, opening my legs wider, fingertips digging into his arms. Pulling him closer, urging him on.

He groans my name the moment his fingers meet the bare skin of my pussy. I’m not wearing underwear.

“I was in the shower,” I pant out, hand sliding down his arm, gripping tight to hold him against me. “I didn’t—” My breath catches in my throat when he cups his hand over my mound, the heel of his hand pressing on my clit, two of his fingers sliding past my entrance, stroking into me. “Patrick.”

Suddenly, he’s gone. On the other side of the couch, as far away from me as he can get.

“Shit.” He drags his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “I need to leave.” His chest is pumping hard, his obvious erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. “It’s late, and—” he says, swiping a shaky hand over his mouth, refusing to look at me. “I need to leave.”

“What?” Confused, I sit up, pulling my dress down. “Why?”

He jumps up like the couch is on fire, crossing the room in a few angry strides before he turns to face me. “Because you’re a problem for me, Cari. I can’t—” Wincing at the sharp tone he uses, Patrick takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, chest still heaving, fingers laced around the back of his neck. “I can’t think straight when you’re this close to me...” He looks at me, jaw set. Mouth tight. “I forget what I want.”

“You’re mad at me again,” I say quietly. “You think I came out here to—” Push you. Play games. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted...”

He scowls at me like I just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I know that, Cari.”

“Then why are you mad?” I say, chin set at a stubborn angle to keep from crying.

He sighs and drops his hands, his face softening “Come here.”

I stand up. Go to him.

He reaches for me, his fingers gentle as they brush across my face, despite the hard look he’s giving me. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not mad—not at you.” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss against my temple. “But I have to go. Lock the door behind me.” He hesitates, his mouth twisting for a moment before he continues. “And if I come back tonight, don’t answer the door.”

“But—”

“I’m serious,” he says, teeth clenched. “Promise me.”

“Okay. Promise,” I whisper, nodding my head. I don’t have to ask why. I understand.

He leans in, pressing a quick kiss against my temple. “Goodnight.”

“Will you call me when you get home?” I blurt out. “Please—it’s late. I’ll worry if you don’t.” It’s true, I will worry, but it’s the need I have to hear his voice that has me asking.

He hesitates again, and I expect him to tell me no. Make an excuse that it’ll be too late. That he needs to get some sleep Instead, he nods, a quick bob of his head.

He watches me for what feels like forever before swiping his jacket off the chair and walking out. I stand here, listening to his heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs, moments before he slams the door.

He’s gone.