I don’t know what to do with the emotion that it makes me feel. But I know I’m not ready to let it go.
My fingers trace the wing once more, and I want him to feel how much it means—how much he means—in every touch, every kiss. Shifting closer, I nestle back into the space beside him,careful with the covers. My lips hover near his. I press a kiss to his mouth: gentle, testing, sweet.
His eyes don’t open at first, but the scratch in his voice is low and rough from sleep. “You do that again,” he says, “you’re gonna get a whole lot more than kissing. You’ve already woken the beast touching my thigh the way you did.”
I grin, lips brushing against his again. “It’s almost like that was the point.”
He opens his eyes at that, and the look he gives me is pure fire and soft affection tangled into one. His hand slips under the covers, palm spreading across my hip.
We don’t rush. Just a slow build of touches, kisses, hands exploring skin we already know but want more of. He pours himself into me with the kind of reverence that says I matter, and I return it, showing him that I see him. I see all the strong, broken, beautiful parts that make up the man beside me.
Forty-five minutes pass in a haze of warmth and whispered things I’m not ready to call love out loud but feel deep in my bones.
Eventually, the guilt catches up with us.
I press my forehead to his chest. “We should check on JT.”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Yeah. We should.”
Neither of us moves for another full minute.
The moment sinks into my skin with the same quiet permanence as the drawing on my arm.
The loft is quiet, the scent of coffee already drifting in from downstairs. Maybe Will’s back. It couldn’t possibly be JT.
But then my phone buzzes.
I almost ignore it, but habit wins. I reach for it at the edge of the nightstand and see the sender’s name in bold:Brenda Melrose.
My stomach drops before I even open it.
It’s the client with the custom armoire Ashley destroyed.
The message is polite, professional. She’s asking if everything’s still on track for delivery next week and includes an innocent, attached photo of the space it’s meant to go in. I stare at the picture of a room that now has no piece of furniture to fill it. That beautiful, one-of-a-kind cabinet is splintered in the middle of my shop.
My chest tightens.
I slide the phone face down on the nightstand and sit up, the covers falling from my chest. I’m already thinking through supply chains, salvage leads, restoration timelines. I’ll have to find something comparable. Fast.
Hex shifts behind me. With a large hand he hooks me, dragging me over to him. “You okay?”
I nod, but it’s more muscle memory than truth. “I need to get back to the shop. It’s the client expecting the piece that… doesn’t exist anymore.”
He sits up too, the lines of sleep giving way to something sharper. He doesn’t argue for me to stay, but I can feel it in him. He’s working something out behind his eyes.
“I’ll be okay,” I say, more gently this time. “I just need to start sorting things.”
He moves without a word, walks across the loft to the dresser, opens the top drawer. When he turns back, he’s holding the Sig he taught me to shoot with.
My stomach flips.
He presses it into my hands, his fingers curling around mine for a beat longer than necessary. “Keep it on you,” he says. “At all times.”
I swallow hard. “Hex—”
“I need to know you’re not out there with no protection when I can’t be with you.” He lifts his eyes to mine. “It’s not about being scared. It’s about being smart.”
I nod, fingers closing around the grip. “Okay. I will.”
