Where is it?
I close my eyes and exhale.
Damn.
The article.
Dane watches me closely. “Work?”
“Yeah. I need to finish the article today. It’s…important.”
He nods. “We’ll make space for it.”
Just like that. No hesitation. No annoyance.
Space.
Forme.
Something warm unfurls in my chest.
I text Carrie back.
Soon. Really soon.
I’ll get it to you.
#PinkySwear
I lock my phone.
Dane takes it from my hands gently and places it on the table like before face down, away from me, away from the world.
“Stay here a bit longer,” he murmurs.
And I do.
I lean into him, my forehead against his chest. His hand sweeps over my back, slow and steady, tracing the dip of my spine. His touch is quiet intimacy, not demanding, comfort threaded with a hunger he’s barely holding back.
“Penn?” His voice is low.
“Hm?”
“Last night… thank you for not running.”
“I think I finally stopped running a long time ago,” I whisper. “I was just facing the wrong direction.”
His breath catches. And then his lips press into my hair, soft, lingering, as the morning stitched together with warmth and promise.
Breakfast lingers between us, warm plates pushed aside, our legs tangled under the tiny teak table. The yacht hums softly beneath us, slicing smooth through the morning water. Dane leans back in his chair with one ankle hooked over his knee, staring at me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
I sip orange juice, watching sunlight dance in the glass. “This…feels unreal.”
“It’s just breakfast, Peach.”
“On a yacht.”
He smirks. “On our yacht.”
