I reach for him, fingers curling in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer until our noses brush. “Good,” I whisper. “Because I really want to kiss my future coffee-fight partner right now.”
“Tragic,” he murmurs. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
He kisses me, and it feels different than earlier.
Less like we’re burning off fear.
More like we’re staking a claim.
His mouth is warm and slow on mine, the kind of kiss you could get addicted to—unhurried, thorough, tasting like firelight and tea and the promise of more tomorrows than either of us deserves.
I shift closer, swinging one leg over his lap so I’m straddling him. The blanket slips down, pooling around my hips. His hands slide instinctively to my thighs, fingers curling into the soft flesh there, anchoring me.
Heat coils low in my belly.
He pulls back just enough to breathe, breath fanning over my lips. “I need you,” he murmurs.
“I need you too,” I whisper back.
He trails one hand up my spine, under my shirt, fingertips tracing each notch, making me shiver. The other stays firmly on my hip, holding me steady.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he says quietly, “and I’m going to forget we were talking about dishes and futures and just ruin you right here on this rug.”
A bolt of heat shoots through me.
“Promises,” I breathe.
His thumb rubs slow circles over my hipbone. “Careful,” he warns, voice gone rough. “I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want you. You start talking future, I’m going to start thinking rings and leases and arguments about which side of the bed is mine.”
My heart stutters. “You’ve thought about that?” I ask, barely audible.
He looks up at me like I’m the only thing in his world. “Lark, I’ve been thinking about that since before we ever touched,” he says simply. “I kept trying to file it under ‘fantasy to be ignored,’ but my brain’s bad at deleting you.”
Tears prick again, stupid and persistent.
“Do not cry while you’re sitting in my lap and I’m talking about ruining you,” he mutters. “You’re destroying my mystique.”
“Your mystique was doomed the minute you told me you once cried at a Pixar short,” I sniff.
“That lamp had feelings,” he says defensively.
I laugh, the sound breaking the last of the tension.
He smiles, thumb brushing away the tear that escaped anyway. “So, when we get back… we’re doing this,” he says, tone sobering. “Full version. No beta. No trial period. We tell Gage. We deal with whatever that looks like. We work for Dean or we don’t, but we do it together. You’re my person, Lark. That doesn’t stop when the fire goes out.”
It’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.
Not because it’s flowery.
Because it’s… solid.
Like something I can stand on.
“Say it again,” I whisper.
“You’re my person,” he repeats, eyes steady on mine. “I’m in. However long we get, however messy it is, however many mobs get mad at us on the way. I’m in.”
I kiss him before I can cry all over him again.
