There’s no furniture. Nothing but open space and quiet.
And yet… I feel something settle in me.
“This one’s yours,” Will says behind me.
I turn. “Mine?”
He shrugs, hands tucked in his pockets. “Your writing room. If you want it.”
My throat tightens.
I look around again imagining a desk by the window, books stacked on the shelves, maybe a blanket draped over the chair I refuse to let go of. Late nights. Early mornings. Coffee and deadlines and him bringing me food when I forget to eat.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper.
He steps up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist.
“You can paint it whatever color you want. Knock down walls. Hell, make the kitchen pink if it makes you happy.”
I laugh, leaning back into his chest. “Don’t tempt me.”
He presses a kiss to my temple. “Tempting you is kind of my specialty.”
We stand there for a while, saying nothing. Just breathing in this space.
I realize I want to see more. The backyard. The laundry room. Every inch.
So I turn in his arms and smile. “Show me the rest.”
His grin is slow and warm as he takes my hand and leads me back down the hall, like this house, this life, is already ours.
He leads me to the last door at the end of the hall. It opens with a low creak into a room twice the size of the others, flooded with soft light from tall windows on the far wall. The ceiling angles upward in a sharp pitch, the old wood beams exposed and strong. A wide stretch of floor. An empty closet with double doors.
And bare walls that just feel like home.
“This would be the primary suite,” Will says, but he’s watching me, not the room. “Needs new paint. Maybe some curtains. A bed that doesn’t squeak like hell.”
I walk in slowly, letting my fingers trail along the wall beside the door. “It’s got good bones.”
“So do you,” he murmurs behind me.
I turn, laughing, but he’s already in front of me. Already crowding me back until my spine meets the wall and his body presses against mine. The look in his eyes is molten. Possessive. Like the weight of this choice is finally catching up to him.
“We don’t have to wait for furniture,” he says low, mouth brushing mine. “Room’s empty. Doesn’t mean it ain’t ours.”
And then he kisses me. His hands slide under my shirt, over my skin, like he’s trying to memorize the way I feel right here, against this wall, in this room.
He lifts me without breaking the kiss, my legs wrapping around his waist as he presses me harder to the wood behind me.
I moan, already soaked, already aching.
“You feel that?” he rasps, grinding against me. “This house. This room. Me. It’s all yours, sugar. You hear me?”
I nod, breathless, desperate.
He pulls my shorts down and my panties aside, finds me slick and ready, and groans low in his throat. “Goddamn, you’re always ready for me.”
“Will—please?—”
