Her pupils dilate. "Brooks."
"But first—" I kiss her once, hard and claiming. "Breakfast. Because if I don't leave this room right now, we're not leaving it at all."
I grab one of my shirts from the dresser and toss it to her. She catches it, confusion flickering across her face until she realizes what I'm offering. When she slips it on, the fabric hangs low on her thighs, and my hands curl into fists at my sides. She looks perfect in my clothes. Like she belongs here. In my space. My life. Mine.
"You're staring again," she says, but there's no nervousness in it now. Just awareness.
"Can't help it." I force myself to turn toward the door before I change my mind about breakfast. "Come on."
The kitchen fills with morning light, warm through windows that frame the mountains. I start coffee while she wanders to the mantel, studying the photos there. Her fingers trace the frame holding the picture of Grant and his wife Emma at their place in a small town called Granitehart Ridge.
"That's my brother, Grant," I say, bringing her a mug. Steam rises between us, and I let my fingers brush hers when she takes it. The contact lingers longer than necessary. "He lives inVirginia’s Shenandoah Mountains and does search and rescue. His wife owns a chaotic herd of goats people rent out to clear brush from their land if it’s impossible to mow.”
"You're close with him?"
"I am now, but we didn’t used to be." I lean against the counter, watching her over the rim of my coffee. "We’re pretty different, but we’ve learned we have more in common than we thought.”
“You guys found your way back."
"Yeah." The word comes easier than I expect. "We did."
She doesn't push for more, and I'm grateful. I think about the other photo I keep in my desk drawer. Marcus in his gear, grinning like he had all the time in the world. The letters I’ve written to him, packed away and unaddressed. The guilt that sits in my chest like a stone I can't swallow.
But she doesn't know about any of that yet. Doesn't know the full shape of what I'm carrying.
She doesn't push for more, and I'm grateful. She turns back to me with that soft smile and asks about Grant's goats like she knows I need the lighter conversation. Like she's learning my silences, the way I process things by touch and time instead of words.
Showing me I can trust her with my broken pieces.
The eggs sizzle in the pan. When I set the plate in front of her, my hand finds her thick thigh automatically. Warm skin under my palm. The muscle there jumps at my touch, and I let my thumb trace a slow circle against the inside of her knee.
She covers my hand with hers. Squeezes. Her nails are short, practical, but the pressure of them against my knuckles makes my pulse kick.
"This is good," she says after the first bite.
"My one domestic skill." I watch her eat, tracking the way her throat works when she swallows. "That and making coffee strong enough to strip paint."
She laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen. Fills me.
We eat in comfortable silence, our knees touching under the counter. The eggs are perfectly seasoned, the toast buttered just right. When I reach over to wipe a crumb from the corner of her mouth, my thumb lingers against her bottom lip. Her eyes darken, and heat flares between us.
My phone buzzes on the counter. Grant's name appears on the screen.
I almost ignore it, but Elorie nods toward it. "You should answer."
I grab the phone and accept the call, keeping one hand on her thigh. "Yeah?"
"You still breathing?" Grant's voice comes through warm with amusement. "Because you never call anymore. I’m starting to think something happened to you."
"I'm fine."
"You sound different." There's a pause, and I can practically hear him grinning. "Happy. You met someone."
Not a question. A certainty.
"Her name's Elorie," I say, and my hand tightens on her leg. "Works at a bookstore in Pine Valley."
"And you've totally fallen for her."
