"We can do that," I breathe against his mouth.
"And breakfast."
"Obviously breakfast."
"And—" He pauses. Looks at me with tenderness in his eyes. "Whatever you want. Today's yours."
I think about it. What do I want? After last night—the shed, the sex, the bath, the story about Red—I feel cracked open. Raw. Full.
"I want to write," I say. The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. "I haven't been able to, not since Chicago. But right now..." I trail off.
"Then write." He kisses my forehead. "I'll be here."
***
Later, I'm curled against his side on the couch, my notebook open on my lap. I've been writing for an hour—the words finally coming after days of nothing. He's been reading one of Murphy's old paperbacks, but I catch him watching me over the top of it.
"What's it about?" he asks.
I look up. "What?"
"The book. You've been scribbling in that thing for days. What's it about?"
I hesitate. I haven't talked about my writing with anyone since Chicago. Haven't wanted to. But this is him. And after everything he told me in that bathtub—
"It's about a woman who witnesses something she shouldn't have," I say slowly. "Who has to hide. Who ends up somewhere she never expected, with someone she never expected."
He's quiet. Processing.
"She falls for him," I continue. "Even though she knows it's complicated. Even though she knows it might not work. She falls for him anyway, because he makes her feel safe for the first time in months. Because he sees her—not the scared version, not the broken version. Just her."
"Sounds like someone I know."
"Maybe." I close the notebook. "It's fiction."
"Sure it is." But he's smiling now. Actually smiling—rare and real and devastating. "How's it end?"
"I don't know yet." I trace a pattern on his chest. "I haven't figured that part out."
"Let me know when you do."
"You'll be the first."
He pulls me closer. Presses a kiss to the top of my head.
"Read me some," he says.
"What?"
"Read me some. I want to hear it."
My heart stutters. "It's rough. First draft. There's probably a million things wrong with—"
"Eden." His voice is soft. Patient. "Read me some."
So I do.
I open to a scene from the middle—not the beginning, not the parts that are too close to the bone. A scene where the characters are cooking together, arguing about garlic, learning each other's rhythms. Fiction. Mostly.
