I growl. My hand roams over his taught stomach before reaching down to squeeze his dick. “Of course not. I’m just saying, what if someone’s in dire need of bacon and you’re incapacitated at that moment?” I suck and lick the skin behind his ear.
Beckett moans, leaning back into me. “Dire need, you say?”
“Dire,” I whisper into his ear.
“NEVER!” he battle cries, which is followed by a diabolical laugh as he turns around, spatula aimed at my chest.
My hands go up. “Okay, okay.”
We both lose it, laughing so hard my stomach aches. I catch his hips, haul him in, and drop a quick kiss on the top of his head before swatting his ass.
He yelps, glaring over his shoulder, but he’s smiling.
I finish setting the table while he brings over the last stack of French toast. The whole thing feels… easy. Domestic, even. I didn’t think that word fit me, but here I am, grinning like an idiot while he sets the plate down, pulls out his chair, and sits next to me at the table.
“What?” he asks, suspicious.
I shake my head, still wearing that dumb smile. “Nothing.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re smiling.”
“Yeah,” I say, letting the word hang a moment. “I noticed.”
After filling our plates, we sit in comfortable silence. I catch him sneaking glances my way as I do the same to him, both of us cracking a smile every time it happens.
“You’re different, you know?” he finally says.
“What do you mean?”
“This version of you. I’ve never seen it before. But it doesn’t feel like a version, it feels like the real you. You’re funny, and not as grumpy as you make everyone believe.”
I raise a brow and give a little grunt.
“See, that’s just cute.” He goes to pinch my cheek, and I swat his hand away.
I have officially lost control where this man is concerned. That thought alone should set off every alarm I’ve carefully installed in my life, but instead it… settles. Which is worse.
I’ve never let hookups get playful. Joking means comfort, and comfort means attachment, and attachment means you have something to lose. With other guys, it was simple—sex, release, goodbye. No teasing, no lingering, no mid-morning French toast. They didn’t get the soft version of me because I never let there be a soft version. I told myself that was smart.
I have lost all restraint over this man. The thought nearly does me in. My faith in relationships has never been there. I watched my mother live a miserable life. She stayed with a man who didn’t see her, didn’t love her the way she deserved. It breaks my heart. She deserved to be happy and loved. I kept thinking someone should come in and love her right, pick her up, make her laugh again. No one did. And when she died, I made a promise to myself: fine, then I won’t need anyone. I’ll build a life that runs on my time, my rules, my work. If no one can disappoint me, no one can break me.
But sitting here now, with Beckett in my life—loud, mouthy, talented, infuriating—I keep wondering if I got it wrong. Maybe I wasn’t saving myself from heartache. Maybe I was just starving myself. Because whatever this thing is with him—the way I want to text him, the way I listen when he talks about food, the way Irelax without realizing it—that’s not nothing. That’s the thing I told myself didn’t exist.
So was I missing out all along… or is it just him? I don’t know. Maybe I never will. What I do know is this: I don’t want to go back to the way it was. Not after feeling him trust me enough to let me in. Not after hearing him laugh in my kitchen. Not after realizing he sees past the control and doesn’t run. I spent years making sure nobody could get close enough to leave.
Now I’m thinking this one… I’m not letting him go.
“Hey,” Beckett says, voice softer than his usual sass. “Where’d you go? I promise never to try to pinch your cheeks again.”
I blink back at him and really look—messy hair, eyes too earnest for his own good, flour on his shirt from breakfast. My heart does that stupid little flip. Yeah, I’m gone.
“Come here.” I catch his hand and tug him onto my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He settles there, warm and solid, and when I breathe him in—coffee, syrup, kitchen—I get that rare feeling I don’t say out loud.
If I was questioning it before, I’m not anymore. I love him.
“Come over tonight when you get off work?” I say into his hair.
He tips back, a grin sliding onto his face. “See? I knew you missed me.”
