He steps back into the room, lips still swollen, that blissed-out, wrecked expression lingering with a shadow of uncertainty underneath. His arms hang awkwardly at his sides, like he’s suddenly not sure what to do with them.
“Well,” he says, bending for his jeans. “I guess I’d better go.”
Something in my chest pulls tight.
“Wait.” The word is out before I can second-guess it. “Stay. Please stay.”
He straightens, searching my face. “Are you sure? Because I can go if it’s… too much.”
The fact he even thinks that sinks a blade right into my ribs. That he’d make it easy for me to push him away, like he’s preparing for it.
“No,” I say too quickly. I sit up against the headboard, reaching without grabbing. “I want you here. And I already scheduled your appointment at Joe’s for the morning. We’ve got to drop your car off anyway.”
He hesitates one breath longer, then nods. “Okay.”
When he climbs back into bed, it’s slow, careful, like he’s giving me another chance to change my mind. I don’t. I lift the blanket, and he settles in against my side, head fitting into the curve of my neck like that’s where it belongs. One hand rests over my chest, light, warm, right over my heartbeat.
“Would you mind driving me to the grocery store after we drop my car off?” he asks quietly. “I’ve got a rare day off, and I want to play with some recipes.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, my fingers tracing a lazy line along his shoulder. The small, normal task settles something jagged inside me.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “Of course.”
He goes on, softer, like sleep is pulling at him. “I didn’t even ask if you’re working. If you’re busy, Finn can?—”
“I’m not,” I cut in. “Shop’s closed tomorrow. No appointments. I’m free all day.”
He tilts his face up, and there it is again—that little spark. Mischief overlaying something more tentative.
“How would you feel about being my taste tester?” he asks. “For the cookbook stuff.”
The question is light, but it lands heavy. That he’d invite me into that space, the one that was used against him, the one he’s rebuilding from scratch. That he’d trust me with even a piece of it.
“Ummm,” I say, because my brain is slow but my heart is not. “A whole Beckett meal?” I press a kiss to the top of his head, letting my lips linger there. “Count me in.”
He relaxes fully then, body melting into mine.
I stare up at the ceiling in the dark, aware of every point where we’re touching. This should terrify me more than it does. He’s under my roof, in my bed, planning tomorrow with me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself want him to still be here when I wake up.
“Areyou sure you’re okay taking the bike? We can always swing back to my place and grab the truck,” I say as we cross the lot. “We’re only a couple of blocks away.”
“No, your saddlebags should be big enough. I’m just picking up a few things,” Beckett says, peeking into one.
We’ve already dropped his car at Joe’s and hit the hardware store for the part I ended up having to order for his washer, which isnow hogging the top case. That leaves the saddlebags for groceries. In my defense, it was a nice day; the bike was an automatic choice. I did not factor in logistics. Or the fact that I woke up to a very eager mouth on my dick and my brain hasn’t fully rebooted since.
Inside the grocery store, Beckett grabs one of the small carts, and pulls out his phone.
“Just wanna double-check my ingredients,” he says.
“Take your time.” I steer us off to the side with the produce. “What are you making me, Chef?”
“It’s such a nice day, I was thinking grilled steaks. And there’s this bourbon garlic cream sauce recipe I want to mess with.” His eyes flick up. “If you’re nice, I might even share.”
“You had me at steak and bourbon,” I tell him.
He huffs a quiet laugh. We lock eyes a beat too long, until he breaks first, cheeks warming.
