I swallow.
“You look nervous,” she says, laughing softly
“I’m slightly concerned you’re about to throw me out.”
She rolls onto her side, smiling now. “No. But I do want to make sure we’re still on the same page about something.”
“Okay…” I say, slow, cautiously.
She takes a breath. “You remember I told you I was seeing someone else.”
“I remember.”
“And you’re still okay with that?”
I shrug, lips twitching. “I was when I said it the first time, wasn’t I?”
That makes her laugh, soft and genuine. “Just checking.”
“I like you, Angel,” I tell her, voice low. “Like,reallylike you. And if that means sharing you a little, I can live with that as long as I don’t have to worry about losing you. We’re not exactly traditional.”
“True,” she says, grinning.
“Anything else?”
“Nope.” She yawns. “But I think since I blew your mind last night, you should make me bacon.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “Dinner and wine weren’t enough?”
“I’m high-maintenance, baby.”
“You’re not.” I lean in, brushing a kiss against her shoulder. “But instead of me burning your kitchen down, how about I take you to breakfast?”
“Done.” She winks.
“It’s settled then,” I grin. “But I think I want a snack first.”
Before she can answer, I slide down the bed, spreading her thighs with my hands and burying my face between them. She gasps, fingers twisting in my hair.
“Silas—”
I hum against her, tongue working slow and deep, savoring the taste that’s already burned into me. Breakfast can wait. This?
This is my favorite meal.
Chapter Thirteen
PENELOPE
By the timemy last class ends, I’m running on caffeine fumes and pure spite.
It’s Monday, which already feels like punishment, and the students apparently made a blood pact to test my patience today. One spilled a smoothie on my notes. A freshman asked ifperiod crampsare contagious.
By four o’clock, I’m ready to fake my own death.
Instead, I grab my bag and head toward the little coffee shop off campus—the one with the chipped blue paint and over-caffeinated college kids permanently attached to their laptops. The air outside smells like burned leaves and espresso, and my brain is already chantingiced latte or homicide.
The bell over the door jingles when I step inside, and the familiar hum of indie music greets me. Warm air and coffee wrap around me as I step inside, the line moving just fast enough to keep me from throwing hands—a kind of heaven-adjacent reprieve after the day I’ve had.
