I can’t move.
Because shifting even an inch would make it real — the morning after, the countdown breathing down our necks, theinevitability of him walking away again, and me stupidly letting him take whatever is left of me when he goes.
So I lie there and let his heartbeat lie to me. I let it pretend we’re safe. That nothing is ending. That this moment isn’t already slipping through our fingers.
“You watching me sleep, butterfly?”
His voice is low and sleep-rough, a sound that vibrates through his chest and straight into mine.
I smirk against his skin, refusing to let the ache take the wheel just yet. “You weren’t sleeping.”
“Was trying.” He stretches beneath me in one slow, lazy roll of muscle, feline and tired and beautiful in that dangerous, impossible way of his. “But then you started fidgeting and making little noises, and I got distracted.”
I slap his chest, pretending it doesn’t make something soft bloom in my ribcage. “I was not making noises.”
“Oh, baby,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement and something filthier, “you were. All night.”
“Stop,” I laugh, burying my face in his neck to hide the flush rising up my throat. The laugh is thin, fragile, too close to breaking. “You’re unbearable in the morning.”
“And you’re beautiful.” He says it lightly, almost carelessly, like it costs him nothing, but the way his hand tightens on my hip gives him away — it costs him everything.
“I should make breakfast,” I mumble, even though what I really mean is I need to stand before I crumble, before I ache myself open in front of him.
“I like when you feed me,” he says, rolling onto his back with a groan. “For a girl who swears she’s not a wife, you’re very good at pretending.”
I freeze.
Just a heartbeat. Just long enough for the word to sink its claws in.
Wife.
Not girlfriend.
Not temporary.
Not the girl he accidentally kissed twice and tried to forget.
A single, innocent syllable that slices straight through the softest part of me.
“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” I whisper, pulling away and grabbing his T-shirt off the floor. It falls down to my thighs, swallowing me whole, swallowing the parts of me I’m not ready to show.
“I mean everything,” he replies, not even blinking. “Especially the things I shouldn’t.”
The kitchen feels safer — small, cluttered, lived-in. A place where nothing catastrophic can happen. I open cupboards, pull out ingredients, organise them like armour.
Pancakes.
Distraction via sugar.
Distraction via movement.
He appears behind me soundlessly, all warm skin and rumpled hair and the kind of presence that fills every corner of a room without trying.
I hate how easily my heart whispers mine.
He wraps his arms around my waist and rests his chin on my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. “You going to feed me in just my boxers,” he murmurs, “or should I go put pants on?”
I roll my eyes. “Eat first. Pants later. Or never. Doesn’t matter.”
