“I haven’t moved yet.”
I grin, brushing his lower lip with my thumb. “Don’t.”
He lets out a breath that might be a laugh, might be a sigh. Then he settles back against my chest like maybe he’s giving himself permission to stay—for tonight, at least.
And I don’t say a word. Because I’m scared if I speak, I’ll ask him to staylonger.
So instead, I hold him tighter.
And when I feel his breathing deepen, I press one more kiss to his hair and whisper against his skin, “You own me, Shaw.”
I half expect to wake up with him sneaking out again. Instead, I wake to the smell of coffee brewing. And…is that bacon?
My stomach grumbles, loud and traitorous, as I scrub a hand over my face and reach blindly for a pair of boxers. I tug them on and pad barefoot toward the living area, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
He’s standing in front of the stove in nothing but a pair of my pajama pants—ones he definitely stole from the bottom drawer—and humming under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world. As though it’s normal for us to spend half the night tangled together, panting and kissing and forgetting how to breathe unless it was in each other’s mouths. And then waking up and cooking breakfast.
I lean against the doorframe and just…watch him.
Hair still messy from sleep, back bare and golden in the soft morning light, waistband hanging low on his hips, a spatula in one hand and a mug of coffee nearby.
It’s domestic.
It’s dangerous.
It’sperfect.
He glances over his shoulder and freezes when he sees me. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” I say, voice rough with sleep and something warmer. I push off the door frame and move toward him.
He shifts, suddenly shy, turning his attention back to the stove top. “I, uh…was hungry. I can replace the bacon?—”
“You stole my pants.”
“They’re comfy.”
I cross the room and wrap my arms around his waist from behind, pressing my mouth to his shoulder. “They look better on you.”
He laughs—soft and surprised—and I feel it in my chest more than I hear it.
“You should sit,” he murmurs. “Coffee’s ready.”
I don’t move. “I like it here.”
He sets the spatula down and turns in my arms, a smiletugging at his mouth even as his eyes search mine. “You always this clingy in the morning?”
“Only when the guy I like is cooking me bacon in my clothes.”
His cheeks flush, but he doesn’t look away. “You like me?”
“I’m trying really hard not to scare you off with how much.”
He looks down for a second, then up again, all open and raw. “You’re not.”
I kiss him before I can say something too much—just a soft brush of lips that makes his breath catch. He kisses me back, easy and warm andreal, and when we finally pull apart, he grins.
“Go sit,” he says, nudging me toward the barstools. “Before you make me burn the bacon.”
