When I finally pull away, her eyes flutter open like she’s waking from a dream. I smirk, heart thundering in my chest.
“Ready to go back inside?” I ask, voice husky.
She nods slowly, dazed.
After dinner, we hung back for small talk. Abigail gushed about baby names and gave us a tour of the nursery like we were next in line for parenthood. And then—mercifully—we left.
Mel insisted on the motorcycle, and thank God for that. The silence between us was thick, but the hum of the engine and the wind gave us both something else to cling to. Her arms wrapped around my waist tighter than ever. I felt every shift of her body against mine, like her touch was no longer part of the show.
When we pulled up to my place, she hopped off the bike fast, like she was afraid of how close she’d let herself get.
“That went well,” I mutter, removing my helmet.
“Yeah, except for the part where your mom thinks I’m a heathen that needs an exorcist.”
“She does not,” I say, following her up the steps. “She’s just a believer. Have you never believed in anything?”
She stops mid-step, turns, and looks at me like I’ve just asked her if she believes in fairy tales.
“No, not really.”
“Your parents never taught you about God, or went to church?”
“I went to a private school, so I learned about God. But my home life…” She trails off, gaze drifting somewhere far away. “It wasn’t exactly full of daily prayers. They put me in private school for status, not faith.”
She moves to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and grabs a glass.
“Do you have any wine or alcohol?”
“Should you be drinking after such a big meal? Won’t that mess with your blood sugar?”
“That’s why I can drink. I can’t on an empty stomach—lowers my blood pressure.”
“Why do you need to drink at all?”
She pauses, eyes falling to the floor. When she meets my gaze again, there’s something hollow behind it. “It helps me sleep. I have a hard time falling asleep.”
“Well, you’ll have medical insurance now. Go see a doctor.”
She folds her arms around herself, suddenly small. Vulnerable.
“Yeah, I should go. But I feel like it wouldn’t help.”
“You won’t know until you try. Talking to someone helped me.”
She looks at me like I’ve just peeled off my skin and revealed something she wasn’t expecting.
“Why do you care if I drink or not? If something happened to me, it’s not like it would matter to you.”
Her voice is laced with bitterness, but underneath it—fear.
She’s used to being discarded. Used to no one caring.
And it fucking guts me.
“I just do,” I say. Simple. Honest. Maybe too much.
She stiffens like I’ve slapped her.
