When my release crested, it stole the breath from my lungs and left me gasping his name, my fingers digging into his back, nails catching on sweat-damp skin. I came undone beneath him, shaking and crying and smiling all at once.
He held me through it, his arms strong and grounding, his lips pressing soft kisses to my temple. Then he whispered my name over and over like it meant something.
After, when we tangled in the rumpled sheets I usually kept tucked tight, his arm curved around me, and his thumb traced slow, lazy circles on my hip.
My body felt weightless. I wasn’t used to feeling safe. Not like this. Not without the walls. For the first time in years, I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to second-guess. I just wanted to stay inside this bubble of warmth and trust we’d built between kisses.
Eventually, his breathing evened, and sleep claimed him. That’s when the voice crept in. The one I thought I’d buried. He’ll get bored. He’ll leave. You’ll be just another mistake he doesn’t make twice.
I stared at the ceiling, trying to push it down. Trying not to listen. Dane Thorne had built something solid in this town. Something permanent. I wasn’t sure I knew how to open up enough to be part of it.
Tomorrow, I promised myself. Tomorrow I’d put the armor back on. Tomorrow I’d be smart again.
But tonight? Just this once...
I let myself believe.
CHAPTER 7
DANE
Morning light slid across the bedroom floor. I stayed still, careful not to wake her, letting myself stare longer than I probably had any right to. Her hair had come loose sometime in the night and spilled in dark waves over the pillow. She breathed evenly, her lips parted just a little, every hard line of her face softened in sleep.
I’d seen her frown, seen her roll her eyes, seen her flush scarlet when she lost her footing on the balance board. But this? This was new.
Maybe I’d found the thing that proved I wasn’t all flash. That I could stay. That I wanted to.
I let my arm stretch across the sheet, not quite touching her. A part of me ached to close the distance. Another part knew better than to spook her. Rowan didn’t let people close easily, and last night had already been more than I thought she’d ever give me.
I drifted half back to sleep, content. When I woke again, the space next to me was empty.
The sound of the bathroom door clicking open was followed by the soft scrape of heels on the floor. She came out dressed in black pants and a soft gray sweater, her bun sharp, her expression already buttoned up. Every soft edge from last night was gone—tucked away, erased, replaced by the armor she seemed to wear like a second skin.
“Morning,” I said, voice rough from sleep.
“Good morning.” Her reply came out crisp and neutral, like we were colleagues passing in a hallway.
Not sure how to react, I sat up and dragged a hand through my hair. “So… about last night.”
Her gaze skated past me to the manila folder on the nightstand, latching on like it was a lifeline.
“It doesn’t change the requirements for your packet. You’ll still need liability coverage extended, cut sheets for lighting, the notice affidavit?—”
“Rowan.”
That stopped her. For a second, anyway.
“I know you’ve got doubts about me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Hell, I’d probably doubt me too. But I’m telling you straight—I’m in this for real. The courts. You. All of it.”
Something flickered across her face—fear, maybe, or the ghost of a painful memory. She tugged her sleeve down over her wrist until only her fingers showed.
“You’ll want to get that certificate submitted by tomorrow,” she said, smooth and professional again. “Otherwise it won’t make the council agenda.”
Not rejection. Not acceptance either. Just distance.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood, close enough to smell the lemon from her shampoo. “I’ll get it in.”
She didn’t step back, but she didn’t lean closer either. We stood suspended like that, inches apart, until she finally shifted toward the door.
