Sofie
I wake before the alarm,I always do. My body doesn’t believe in rest, not fully. Not after the past few years of training myself to be ready before anyone asks anything of me. Before the day demands its first pound of flesh.
What I don’t expect is the weight. Not heavy, not confining, warm.
I’m strapped into him, but not in the way I woke earlier in a vice grip, bladder screaming and mind racing. This is different. His arm is loose around my waist, hand resting flat against my stomach like it belongs there. My back is pressed to his chest, his breath slow and even against the back of my neck.
I went to sleep without my weighted blanket. That alone feels impossible.
More impossible is the memory that when I slipped back into bed after the bathroom, still buzzing from waking up that way, he pulled me in again without waking fully. Just a murmur against my hair, words soft and rough at the same time.
“Not trying to fuck you,” he whispered. “Your nightmare ended when I wrapped you up. This is avoiding that again.”
I’d gone still, embarrassed, and then, somehow, I slept.
Now I lie here for a moment longer than I should, cataloging the absurdity of it. The calm. The fact that my heart isn’t racing, that my mind isn’t already ten steps ahead.
I slide out carefully, inch by inch, moving slowly so I don’t wake him. His arm tightens reflexively, and I still and wait until it loosens and make my move. He exhales and rolls slightly onto his side, still asleep.
I gather my phone, my coat, my boots, quietly, and make my escape from a room that smells like … us.
The house is dim and quiet as I pad down the hall toward the entrance, past the kitchen, already rehearsing how I’ll explain my absence before anyone notices.
Then I hear a chuckle, I stop, step back, and see Paul Bronski leaning against the counter, with his coat on, watching me with amused eyes that have seen everything and judged very little.
“Morning, Sassy. How about you and I grab a cup of coffee before you come with me to Waverly and plan out a shoot?”
“You didn’t see this.”
He chuckles as he grabs his cane and makes his way to me.
“And,” I add, “it’s not what you think.”
“Never is Sassy, never is.”
Outside, there’s a car waiting. “I share a wall with AK.”
I look at him, shocked.
“Killer fits him on the ice, but AK, a weapon, the name you called him to irritate him at Rockefeller Center, that fits everywhere else. He’s locked, loaded, and ready to either destroy or defend.” He smirks. “If you ask me, he needs something to defend. He’s like a Doberman with no master.”
“I—”
He lifts a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation. We’ll talk more when we get to Waverly.” He opens the door. “After you.”
Inside the car, I watch as Paul orders coffee and breakfast sandwiches for delivery via an app, something he would never have been able to do when Nalani moved here on a whim, and we all met him. When he was lying on a floor smelling like he’d bathed in alcohol, unable to get up because he’d let himself get weak, no doubt praying that he didn’t wake up because he missed Patsy, his wife, who had passed a decade ago.
He opens the door to the house that, just weeks ago, was run-down, and I smile, feeling a bit emotional. My eyes get hot, “It’s only been like two weeks since I was here.”
“You throw enough money at people, they do what you ask, you of all people should know this.” He chuckles. “Secret?” He asks, and I nod. “Moretti threw even more in because he wants to surprise Claudia and Savannah with the house completed enough to spend their first Christmas here.”
“Oh my God, that’s perfect,” I smile and look around, picturing it.
“Tree used to go over there,” he points to a wall behind the skeleton of a kitchen. “Gonna be my suite, so I’m told.”
“Is it going there now?” I point to the large fireplace, centered in the far wall.
“Got a good eye, kid,” he chuckles.
