Sleeping Beauty

Maeve's POV

"How much longer, Lucas?" I hissed, unable to keep the raw irritation from leaking into my voice.

We had been crawling down this endless stretch of two-lane highway for nearly two hours, and he had conveniently neglected to mention that the trek would feel like a cross-country endurance test. My lower back ached from the stiff leather seat, and the silence inside the vehicle was growing louder with every passing mile.

Lucas did not even blink, keeping his gaze locked on the shimmering gray asphalt ahead. "If you ask me that one more time, Mae, I will pull over and leave you on the side of the road."

I bit down on the sharp retort burning my tongue and turned to glare at his profile instead. He looked maddeningly handsome. The late afternoon light poured through the driver’s side window, catching the clean, harsh angle of his jaw and illuminating the dark stubble dusting his skin. He looked like something carved out of granite, entirely unbothered by the stifling quiet that was driving me out of my mind.

I wanted to shake him. I wanted to scream at him to turn on the radio, or demand he tell me if the air between us felt as thick to him as it did to me. But I swallowed the urge, crossed my arms over my chest, and stared out the passenger window.

The urban sprawl had faded behind us an hour ago, replaced by the rolling hills of the Texas countryside. Broad cattle pastures stretched out beneath a sky that was turning into a blaze of burnt orange and pale violet. Weathered ranch houses with wraparound porches dotted the horizon, their tin roofs catching the last rays of daylight. It had the lazy, nostalgic charm of an old Western film, beautiful enough to soothe frayed nerves if my pulse was not racing from the man sitting two feet away.

"Can we roll down the windows?" I asked. My voice came out softer than I planned, stripped of its previous bite by sheer weariness.

I braced myself for a sarcastic comment about ruining the aerodynamics or messing up his hair. Instead, Lucas reached toward the center console in silence. He clicked off the air conditioning, rolled down the side glass, and touched the control that slid the sunroof open.

A wave of warm evening air swept into the cabin, carrying the scent of dry prairie grass, sun-baked earth, and sweet cedar. The breeze whipped loose strands of hair across my cheeks, cooling the flush beneath my skin. I rested my chin against the padded ledge of the door frame and let my heavy eyelids drop.

For the first time all afternoon, the tension inside the car dissolved into the steady hum of tires on the pavement. I had not planned on closing my eyes for more than a second, but the relentless weight of the past few days pressed down on my shoulders, pulling me under before I could fight it off. The golden light behind my lids dimmed, and the world faded out.

***

Lucas's POV

The smooth highway finally gave way to a rough county backroad, the tires kicking up loose stones against the undercarriage.

"Mae, pull your head inside. We are hitting a bumpy stretch," I called out, keeping a firm grip on the steering wheel as the suspension bounced over a series of shallow ruts.

Silence met my words. There was no snappy comeback, no dry remark, and not even the usual theatrical sigh she loved to aim at me when she felt bossed around.

The lack of friction immediately set my teeth on edge. Maeve never let an order slide without firing back at least one petty jab.

"Mae," I growled, letting my irritation sharpen the edge of my voice.

Still nothing. I eased off the accelerator, pressed the brake pedal, and guided the car onto the dusty gravel shoulder. The engine dropped to a quiet purr beneath the hood as I shifted into park and unclicked my seatbelt.

I turned around in the driver's seat, ready to read her the riot act for tuning me out, but the sharp words died in my throat.

She was sound asleep. Her head had slumped sideways against the door panel, cushioned only by the hard plastic trim. Her dark lashes rested like tiny crescents against her pale skin, and her lips were parted just enough to let out a rhythmic breath. Her hair had blown into a messy tangle across her face, fluttering in the lingering draft from the cracked window.

I stared at her in mild disbelief. Only Maeve could manage to pass out cold while riding shotgun over a washboard dirt road. Most people would have been jolted awake by the first pothole, but she had crashed like someone who had not slept in days.

Four years of sharing an apartment with her had taught me that she possessed an endless supply of stubborn habits, yet moments like this still caught me off guard. She went through life with her defenses dialed up to maximum, always ready to parry every insult, but the second exhaustion hit, she dropped like a felled tree.

I leaned across the center console, reached out, and wrapped my fingers gently around her bare forearm. "Hey. Wake up, Mae."

She did not open her eyes. Instead, she let out an incoherent mutter about cold tea and shifted her weight, her head slipping off the trim and smacking against the headrest. She stayed out, deep in sleep, her brow twitching once before settling back into stillness.

I blew out a rough breath, killed the ignition, and stepped out into the cooling air. The quiet of the Texas countryside rushed in to replace the rumble of the engine, filled only with the distant chirping of crickets and the scent of wild sagebrush.

I rounded the hood of the car and pulled open the passenger door with a muted click. Maeve did not move an inch. Leaning into the footwell, I slid one arm underneath her knees and brought my other arm behind her shoulders, scooping her up from the bucket seat.

She weighed next to nothing. The realization tightened a knot of irritation deep in my gut, reminding me that she routinely skipped lunch between her college lectures and her diner shifts. As I lifted her against my chest, she gave a drowsy whimper and buried her face straight into the crook of my neck.

Her skin was warm, radiating the sweet scent of cheap vanilla lotion and lavender soap. Her hands came up instinctively, her small fingers curling into the cotton of my shirt to anchor herself. For a few seconds, I stood frozen by the open door on the side of the road, holding her against my ribs while the last sliver of the sun dipped behind the tree line. Her breath brushed warm against my collarbone, steady and trustful in a way she would never allow herself to be when she was awake.

I cleared my throat, forcing the sudden tightness in my chest to loosen, and pulled open the rear door using my elbow.

I leaned down and laid her flat across the wide leather bench seat. As I lowered her legs, the hem of the brown cotton dress she had picked out for the trip rode up past mid-thigh, baring smooth skin that caught the twilight glow.

I clamped my jaw shut and forced my gaze away, staring hard at the floor mat. She looked incredible, and the fact that she had tried so hard to hide beneath oversized cardigans and drab fabrics only made the sight of her bare legs hit harder.

Four years. For four long years, she had lived under my roof, walking down the hall in flannel pajamas, making coffee in the mornings, and leaving faint traces of vanilla in the air that lingered long after she left for class. I had told myself over and over that having her as a roommate was purely practical, a convenient arrangement born out of shared history and cheap rent. But that was a lie I told to keep myself sane.

I had turned into a watcher. I noticed every single habit she thought went unseen.

I noticed when she slipped extra bottles of water into my gym bag before morning practices. I saw the quiet satisfaction on her face whenever she left a plate of leftover dinner wrapped in foil inside the fridge with a sticky note on top. I saw her sitting alone in the topmost row of the bleachers during my home games, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes, cheering when I drove to the basket and slipping out through the exit before the final buzzer so she would not have to talk to me afterward.

And I heard her through the shared drywall of our bedrooms. Late at night, when the rest of the building was asleep, I would lie in the dark and listen to the faint, muffled sounds of her crying into her pillow. She was drowning in student loans, terrified of being a burden, and convinced that she owed me something she could never repay.

I did not want her money. I had never wanted a single cent from her. But every time I tried to soften the edges of my voice or offer help, she put her walls right back up, terrified that accepting kindness meant acknowledging weakness.

She had every reason to distrust me. When we were younger, I had been an absolute monster to her.

Back then, I was a miserable, arrogant kid who thought cutting people down made him powerful. Maeve had been small, quiet, and defenseless, an easy target for my cheap cruelty. I had spent years mocking her clothes, teasing her about her shyness, and making sure she felt invisible. I had handed her the very bricks she used to build the walls that locked her away from the world.

Sometimes, late at night, the memory of her younger face—eyes shiny with unshed tears while she tried to force a small, polite smile through my taunts—made me sick to my stomach. If I could tear out those years and burn them, I would. I wanted to tell her that she was stunning, that her body was something men would lose their minds over, and that she never needed to hide beneath layers of baggy clothes ever again.

I wanted to tell her that the way her laughter crinkled the corners of her eyes was the best part of coming home.

When Celeste tore my life apart by sleeping with my cousin in my own bed, I had sworn off attachments for good. I had told myself women were a distraction, an equation of convenience that brought nothing but betrayal and hollow promises. I thought my heart was stone.

Then Maeve had shown up on my porch with two scuffed suitcases and nowhere else to go, looking up at me with those guarded, bruised eyes.

Over the years, she had dismantled my cynicism without even trying. She made an empty apartment feel like a sanctuary. But the tragedy was that she needed real, unblemished love—the kind that came from a man who was whole and steady, not someone twisted up by old bitterness and broken pride.

Her own family had treated her like an afterthought for as long as I could remember. That was the primary reason I had stopped teasing her all those years ago; the moment I realized how deeply she was hurting inside her own house, the joy of being a cruel punk had turned to ash in my mouth.

She needed someone who could give her everything. I was not that guy. I was too damaged, too guarded, and too terrified of breaking whatever fragile trust remained between us.

In eight months, she would finish her degree. She would pack up those same two suitcases, take a job at some news desk or publishing house, and move on with her life. She would find someone decent who looked at her with pure intentions, someone who had not spent his childhood making her cry.

Until that day came, this was what we had: fake dating for an awful weekend at my parents' estate, sharp insults traded across kitchen counters, and the quiet comfort of shared space. I would take whatever scraps she gave me.

I looked down at her one last time. Her breathing was steady, her face completely peaceful in the dim back seat.

I reached down and picked up her left hand. Her fingers were cool from the evening draft, small and soft against my calloused palm. Leaning down, I pressed a brief, lingering kiss against the back of her hand, feeling the delicate flutter of her pulse beneath her skin.

I laid her arm gently across her stomach, stepped back out of the car, and closed the door without making a sound.

The air outside had turned crisp as the last band of orange faded into deep navy along the horizon. I walked back around to the front, slid behind the wheel, and picked up the chilled plastic water bottle she had stashed in the cup holder before we left the city. She had remembered to grab it even while we were arguing about departure times.

I twisted off the cap and took a long, cold pull, letting the icy water settle the raw heat in my throat.

I tossed the empty bottle onto the floorboard, pulled the shifter into gear, and eased the car back onto the gravel road.

The Garrison manor was less than thirty minutes away. My mother’s scrutinizing glares, the family questions, and Celeste’s venomous little smiles were all waiting past the iron front gates.

They could throw whatever they wanted at me. I was ready to drag every one of them through hell before I let a single person in that house make Maeve feel small again.