Is that what we’re calling this?
“You’re thinking loud,” he observes, sliding back into bed beside me.
“Just processing.” I curl into his good side. “That was amazing. I mean. You were.Wewere.”
“We were pretty great, weren’t we?” he agrees. His hand traces patterns on my bare shoulder.
My stomach chooses that moment to growl. Loudly.
“Kitchen raid?” he suggests.
“You read my mind.”
We throw on clothes. Well, I steal one of his shirts because it smells like him and I’m apparently that person now. He pulls on sweats.
The kitchen is dark. We navigate by moonlight and muscle memory.
He makes me a sandwich. I steal his chips. We eat standing at the island like two people who forgot how chairs work.
Not a billionaire.
Not a nanny.
Just two people very much in love with one another.
My phone lights up on the counter. I check it. A text from Ethan:It’s after midnight. You leave yet?
Shit.
I pick up the phone, very aware that Marco can see the screen.
“Your brother checking in?” he asks mildly.
“Yep.” I type out a response:Not yet. Still here.
The reply comes back instantly:Jess.
Just my name. That’s it. The universal big brother signal for “I’m disappointed but not surprised.”
Another text arrives:Do you want me to pick you up?
I glance at Marco, who’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Then I look down at my phone, then at his shirt I’m wearing, and finally at the half-eaten sandwich.
I text back:Nope. I’m good. I’m safe. I promise.
Three dots appear. Those dots remain on the screen for a whole thirty seconds, as if Ethan’s constantly typing and erasing and retyping his response.
Finally:Fine. But if anything feels wrong, you call me. I don’t care whattime it is.
I reply:I will. Thank you for being the world’s most annoyingly protective brother.
Ethan returns:Someone has to be. Love you.
I text back:Love you too.
When I set the phone down and look up I find Marco still watching me.
“He’s not happy I’m still here,” I explain.
