She’s awake.
I move down the stairs silently and stop at the kitchen doorway.
And there she is.
Willa’s standing in front of the open freezer, bathed in the cool light, wearing one of Beau’s oversized shirts that hits her mid-thigh. Her legs are bare, long and lean and perfect, and her hair is mussed from sleep and other activities. The shirt shifts as she moves, and I catch a glimpse of the exposed skin of her thighs. I bet they are so soft.
My mouth goes dry.
She’s rifling through the freezer, muttering something under her breath, and then she bends over to reach something on the bottom shelf. The shirt rides up, and I get a perfect view of her ass. She isn’t wearing anything under that T-shirt, and a groan escapes me before I can stop it.
She jumps, spinning around with a pint of ice cream clutched to her chest like a shield.
“Charlie!” Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Me either.” She glances down at herself, seems to realize how little she’s wearing, and tugs at the hem of the shirt self-consciously. “I was just… hungry.”
“Ice cream at three in the morning?”
“Heat aftermath.” She wrinkles her nose. “Makes me hungry and crave weird things. Don’t judge.”
“Not judging.” I step into the kitchen, keeping my distance even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to cross the space between us. “What’s weird about ice cream?”
“Weird because I was also going to salt it.” She holds up the salt shaker as evidence, her cheeks flushing pink.
I blink. “You’re going to… salt your ice cream?”
“Don’t look at me like that. It’s good. The salt brings out the sweetness.” She’s defensive now, clutching both the ice cream and salt shaker to her chest. “It’s a perfectly reasonable thing to do.”
“Uh-huh.” I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. “And does this ‘reasonable’ craving have anything to do with the?—?”
I break off, not sure how to reference what this is. Instead, I gesture at her and then upstairs.
Her blush deepens. “Maybe. Heat aftermath makes me want weird combinations. Last time it was pickles and peanut butter.”
“Jesus, Wills.”
“Don’t judge me, Holt.” But she’s smiling now, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
“Okay, you’re right. It’s weird,” I admit, leaning against the counter across from her, putting the kitchen island between us. Safer that way. Distance is good.
Distance keeps me from doing something stupid like crossing this kitchen and kissing her until neither of us can think straight.
“But you’re welcome to anything we have. Raid the whole kitchen if you want. Salt all the ice cream. We don’t care.”
“Just the ice cream?” She’s teasing now, and I love the sound of it in her voice.
“Anything, Wills. The pantry, the fridge, the freezer. Hell, Beau’s got a stash of fancy chocolate hidden in the back of that drawer if you want that, too.” I pause, my voice dropping. “Whatever you need, it’s yours. You don’t have to ask permission.”
The words hang between us, heavier than I intended. Her smile falters slightly, and she looks away, fidgeting with the ice cream lid.
“I wanted to thank you,” she says quietly. “For offering the pack’s support. For… all of this. I know it wasn’t what you planned.”
“Maybe not planned,” I say carefully. “But it’s what I wanted.”
Her eyes snap back to mine, surprised. “Charlie?—“
