Reese wakes up in the middle of the night, panting, drenched in sweat. He had a nightmare—a nasty vivid one. Rebecca lies next to him, the sheets tangled around her bare body. A sliver of moonlight sneaks through the curtains, tracing a line across her sleeping form. He reaches for her. Doesn’t think, doesn’t stop to evaluate the illogic of his action. He presses his fingers to her wrist and waits. There it is: the steady pulse beneath her skin, pulling him back to reality.
She’s here. Still breathing. Still warm.
Still his.
Because she is his. Or at least, that’s how it feels with her lying defenseless beside him.
Pieces of the nightmare still latch onto him like parasites. In his dream, he saw her—not the breathtaking, sharp-tongued Rebecca he knows, but a hollow version of her. A pale, empty thing, eyes vacant, body limp. Gone. Like something had ripped her from existence, and he could do nothing to stop it. Nothing to save her.
He exhales slowly, running a hand through her hair, pushing stray strands from her face. His fingers graze her cheek, tracing the curve with a touch so careful it almost feels reverent—like if he presses too hard, she might disintegrate.
He watches her for a while, at her peaceful face. His eyes start to close on their own, but he fights it. Doesn’t want to waste a second not looking at her. Doesn’t want to shut his eyes and see those images again. Or feel the ghost of her ice-cold skin under his touch.
He breathes slowly and forces his pulse to slow.
He leans in, focuses on her warmth, on the softness of her arms. Buries his face in her hair, lungs filling with her scent, consoling him, keeping him here. She smells like soap and something sweet. Almonds, maybe. Reese loves almonds. But it’s different; just hers. Something that drags him back to the present. Right here. Just the two of them. Just with her.
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Nothing else matters. Not the fights. Not the millions watching. Not the expectations of the world pressing down on him. Just Rebecca. Warm, real, alive beside him.
He can’t let Live—or anything—take her from him. He won’t be responsible for what he might do.
His whole life, he’s built walls—brick by brutal brick—keeping the past locked out, keeping people at arm’s length. It’s safer that way. Smarter.
But with Rebecca, those walls don’t just crack. They freaking collapse. She gets under his skin, shakes him loose, makes him feel—too much, too deep. She cuts through the act, sees past the mask, and suddenly, he’s not the pop star everybody loves. Not the troublemaker from his teenage years. Not any version of himself he’s had to play to make it this far.
With her, he’s just a man. And that fucking terrifies him.
She’s it. Everything he wanted—though he never knew he was looking for it
And yet, a part of him—some deep, rotting part of him says he shouldn’t have this. Shouldn’t have her. That a man like him, a patchwork of arrogance, recklessness, and just enough charm to get by, doesn’t get to hold onto something this pure.
But fuck that.
Because whether he deserves her or not doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s here. That she’s his. That he’ll give her everything she deserves. No one will ever love her like he does. No one will ever protect her the way he will. And he’ll be damned if he ever lets anything take her away. If the world tries to rip her from him, then the world better be ready for war.
He pulls her closer, arms locking around her like she might slip through his fingers, like she might disappear if he lets go. He nuzzles against her hair, her warmth sinking into him, pulling him under, lulling him toward sleep. Finally, sleep wins, and his eyes slip shut. The tension bleeds from his body, relief sinking into his bones.
Just before he drifts off completely, a thought claws in. A promise. Live won’t decide their future, he will. And they will have one, together. Away from Live and their fucking rules. Fuck the rules. He’ll fight for her. He’ll fight for them. Whatever it takes.
