I keep going because hell, if I stop now I’ll chicken out.
“I’ve been on my own a long time. Even when Tiffany lived here, she was grown, in and out, living her own life. I didn’t share space. Didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.”
Holley sets her fork down, watching me carefully.
“And now,” I admit, “you’re here. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Your bag is on my dresser. Your hum is in my walls. And I don’t hate it.”
Her lips soften. “That’s… good?”
“Yeah,” I say roughly. “That’s what scares me.”
She leans closer, hand brushing mine. “Tony, wanting someone in your space doesn’t make you weak.”
“It does to men like me,” I say. “Or it used to.”
She squeezes my fingers once, light, like she’s offering a rope but letting me choose if I grab it.
“Well,” she murmurs, “maybe men like you deserve something soft too.”
I swallow hard.
Before I can answer, someone knocks.
Hard.
I already know who it is.
Smoke.
He doesn’t bother waiting for permission. He jogs in like he owns the place, tosses his keys onto my counter, and reaches for a cup.
Holley stands, already moving to help. “Tiff said you like yours black?—”
“Sweetheart,” Smoke says, holding up a hand, “I’m capable of pouring my own damn coffee.”
I glare at him. “Then pour it and leave.”
He smirks. “Jealous, old man?”
“Not old. Not jealous.”
Holley bites back a smile.
Smoke strolls over to the table with his cup. “Tiff says you two are playing house.”
“We are not playing anything,” I growl.
Holley goes very still beside me.
Smoke tilts his head. “Look, it’s not my business?—”
“Good,” I interrupt. “Then stop making it your business.”
“But you look happy,” he finishes.
I freeze.
Holley glances at me.
