He ducks his head, not for my mouth but for my forehead, and plants a kiss there. Light, almost nothing. A claim, but not a conquest.
When he steps back, his hand stays on my hip, anchoring me to the floor.
“Sit,” he says. “I’ll get the drinks.”
I obey, just to see the way it looks on me. The table groans when I slide in, the plate still steaming, the fork already warm from my hand. I wait, watching him move through the kitchen. He doesn’t fit, not really. He’s too big for the space, every motion a threat to the cabinets and the cheap glassware. But he handles everything gentle, like he’s learned the hard way not to break things he wants to keep.
He brings two glasses of beer, sets one in front of me, and sits opposite. The food is nothing, but he eats it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. I watch every bite, every swallow, delighting in the way he chews. The way his hands dwarf the fork. The way he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand instead of the napkin.
He finishes first, of course, then leans back and looks at me.
“You okay?” he asks.
I pick at the food, twirling the pasta until it knots. “You ask me that every day.”
He shrugs, one shoulder higher than the other. “Want to hear the answer.”
I set the fork down, flatten my hands on the table. “I’m alive,” I say. “I’m safe. I’m not being hunted.”
He grins, slow and wicked. “That’s not the same as happy.”
“I am happy. I love it here. I love it here with you. It just also sucks living a life where I don’t know if an unexpected visitor means another war.”
“Colton texted,” he says, after a comfortable silence. “He’s finally off the painkillers.”
I raise a brow, feigning surprise. “You mean he can walk five feet without passing out?”
He grins, slow and lopsided. “He says he’s bulletproof now. Wants to spar next time he’s here.”
I snort. “Tell him to bring his own bandages.”
Bam’s laugh is a rumble. “He will. Isolde’s got him on a schedule—protein shakes at six, vitamins at seven, stretching every hour or she’ll break his kneecaps.”
I can picture it perfectly. The old Colton, all shadow and menace, reduced to a domestic lapdog by the most dangerous girl in the Academy.
I swirl my beer and watch the bubbles fizz, excited to hear the updates. Ever since the hospital… I’ve kept mainly to myself. Processing. Thinking. Coming to terms with a life of freedom. “What about O? And her little flower?”
His expression softens. “Ophelia’s good. Still stubborn. Caius bought her a ring sling so he can hold the kid and still chop wood. She threatened to set it on fire.”
I laugh. “Honestly, fair. I’m on her side.”
Bam’s grin widens, exposing the chip in his canine. “He tried to put the damn thing on. The kid cried for an hour. Issy is a wreck too. Pregnant women are a lot. The guys sent me pictures of everything… not sure you’ve seen these. You want to see?”
“Absolutely not.” But I do, so I let him pull out his phone and flick through the gallery. The image on the screen: Caius, shirtless, looking like he wants to die, holding a pink and wrinkled newborn with a face like an angry tomato. The baby’s fist is jammed in his mouth. Ophelia is in the background, eyes closed, face flushed with triumph.
Bam flips to the next photo: Rhett and Issy at the hospital, both exhausted, both refusing to look at the camera. Issy is cradling a Tupperware full of pickles. Rhett looks like he’s about to pass out.
He taps the phone. “Issy’s six months now. Rhett’s already bought out the town’s supply of pickles and Nutella.”
I don’t hide the smile this time. “He was born to be a father.”
Bam’s eyes go soft, and for a second I see the boy he must have been before the world got hold of him. “Maybe we all were, in some fucked up way.”
I reach across the table, grab his hand, thread our fingers together. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, slow, almost reverent.
There’s a pulse behind my ribs, a steadying, a grounding. Maybe this is how you start to forgive the world for everything it’s done to you.
We sit like that, letting the dark close in, the plates cooling on the wood. The only sound is the wind ticking against the glass and the faint hum of the fridge cycling on.
