Had he kept this the whole time?

Hidden between the pages of a book?

A rush of heat crawled up my back.

I should’ve put it back. I should’ve closed the book, stepped away, and pretended I’d never seen it. But my fingers lingered on the glossy surface, and my heart pounded just a little too fast.

Blake wasn’t just keeping this picture; he was keeping it close.

I exhaled shakily, tucking the book under my arm as I slowly backed toward the door. But just as I did, the sheets rustled, and a low, sleepy voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Beverly?” Blake shifted up onto his elbow, blinking drowsily at me. His hair was tousled, messy, falling into his eyes, and his bare chest caught what little light filtered through the curtains.

I swallowed, gripping the Polaroid like a lifeline. “Uh—hi.”

“What’s got you looking so flustered?” His gaze drifted from my face to the book in my arms, then down to the photo in my hand. He frowned slightly, pushing himself up more. “You okay?”

I wasn’t sure if it was the dim light, the blanket that had slipped low on his hips, or the way he was looking at me, but something about the moment felt delicate, like stepping onto thin ice. I wasn’t even sure what to say, wasn’t sure if he could hear the way my breath hitched.

I cleared my throat and gestured to the book tucked under my arm. “Mind if I borrow this?”

“Only if you promise to return it,” he replied with a yawn. “Otherwise, I might have to hunt you down.”

I offered a quick nod.

Lifting the Polaroid, I asked, “You use this as a bookmark?”

His eyes flickered down to it. He didn’t look embarrassed. If anything, he looked resigned. Maybe even a little amused.

A slow breath. Then, “Why not? It’s a great picture of you.”

I stared at him, waiting for more—for him to say something else, something that would make sense of the fire spreading through my chest.

Blake hesitated, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wake himself up fully. Then he exhaled, leaning back against the pillows. His gaze drifted past me, lingering somewhere near the door, before settling back on my face.

“It just felt right,” he said, his voice a little rougher now. “You’re always running around, doing stuff, thinking about a million things at once. But when you’re reading, you just…are.”

“And why exactly did you feel the need to keep it in here?” I pointed at the book again.

Blake stretched, resting an arm behind his head, watching me with an unreadable expression. “Because I like looking at it.”

His gaze held mine—unwavering, like he wasn’t even a little ashamed of the admission.

I licked my lips. “Uh⁠—”