He eases the denim down, careful not to let the metal catch skin. When I step out, he puts a hand on my hip, an anchor more than a hold. He doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t look down either, which somehow undoes me more than if he had.
“Shirt,” he says softly.
I peel it off. He folds it, because of course he does, and sets it on the dresser like it deserves dignity.
“Bed,” he murmurs.
He holds open the covers for me, and I slide in against the cool sheet.
Dom walks to the other side of the bed. He toes off his boots, shrugs out of his jacket, jeans, and shirt before dropping his watchon the nightstand with a click that sounds like the end of a good day.
Dom crawls in and I roll into him, head under his chin, thigh hooked over his. His hand finds my ribs and settles there, the weight perfect, like a paperweight on the layers of my self-doubt.
“Hey,” I breathe into his chest.
“Hey,” he returns, his voice lower with the closeness. His thumb strokes one careful arc along my side, then stops like he’s setting a metronome. The rhythm evens out my pulse.
“Say the number,” I mumble.
He stills, but it feels like a smile. “Ten.”
“Obviously. But I respect your need to say it out loud,” I say lightly, patting his chest.
He huffs a laugh into my hair. “You’re buzzed.”
My jaw cracks with a yawn. “You’re comfy.”
The longer we lie here, the more the leftover tequila buzz drains away, replaced with the heavy weight of exhaustion.
He presses his mouth, just once, to the shell of my ear. “Sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” I say, but another yawn gives away the lie. My words slur with sleep. “Dom?”
“Mm.”
“If I did wear the spandex,” I whisper, the half-asleep courage making me reckless. “I’d only wear it for you.”
His chest rises against my cheek. “Good,” he says, so soft I feel it more than hear it.
He reaches past me, clicking off the bedside lamp. Then his arms slide back around me. My breathing finds his and follows.
His heartbeat pulls me further in, and I fall under its spell.
Because it’s a studio apartment, I carefully and quietly look for a pan to start breakfast. I thought after the night Beckett had, he could use some greasy food and extra sleep. Breakfast, I can do… kinda. Eggs, bacon, toast—I even found some frozen hash browns. It’s not lost on me that I’m in his kitchen… alone, so I use this time to look for a certain bacon recipe. I wonder if I can fuck it out of him.
I mean, it’s worth a shot, right?
Beckett laughed last night—really laughed—and that picture won’t leave me. It did something soft in my chest. It heals the soul, ya know? He’s been feeling lost, and I get it. Heck, I’m finally admitting to myself that I’m feeling kinda lost too. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis, maybe it’s years of constant motion, me always running through life like a maze. I’ve spent so much time running from my father that I’ve mistaken momentum for direction.
Ignoring him is no longer an option.
It’s time for decisions to be made and lines to be drawn in the sand. I can’t keep letting him spin my life in circles every four years. He spent a lifetime subtly twisting and turningmy mother and me to his will until she died, then I fought back, and the law caught up with him.
I hear rustling on the other side of the apartment, followed by the click of the bathroom door closing. I get out a mug and pour a cup of coffee before adding creamer I found in the fridge.
“Do you really thinkmyeating your cooking is a good idea after a night of drinking?” His voice is rough velvet, sleep-wrecked, and amused. He’s leaning in the doorway, hair a mess, eyes a little wary of the light.
I turn, lift an eyebrow, and hand him coffee first. We both know the hierarchy of needs.
