I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself.
She gasps, smacking my chest. “Javier!”
“What?” I grin. “That’s affectionate for Blade.”
Her cheeks are pink now, eyes sparkling. “You’re in so much trouble.”
“Worth it,” I say without hesitation.
I type back one-handed.
Me:Relax. She’s good. Real good.
Three dots pop up almost instantly.
Switch:We’re swinging by later.
Blade:Yeah. We need to talk.
I snort softly. “Fantastic. A family meeting.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt, playful but warm. “They just want to make sure I’m okay.”
“I know,” I say quietly, glancing down at her. “So do I.”
I set the phone aside and slide my fingers back into her hair, eyes drifting back toward the game as she settles into my lap again, comfortable and content like the world can throw whatever it wants at us.
EIGHTEEN
BROOKE
I wakeup with Javier half on top of me. One heavy arm thrown across my waist. One leg tangled somewhere between mine. My face smashed into his shoulder like my body decided personal space is optional when he’s involved.
Sunlight spills through the gap in the curtains, warm and bright across the bed. The room smells faintly like coffee from the timer going off in the kitchen and Rev’s soap on the pillowcase. Normal. Comfortable. Ours.
We’ve been doing this for weeks now. Sometimes we wake up at his place. Sometimes mine. Sometimes neither of us remembers whose house we passed out in until one of us opens our eyes and clocks the decor. It stopped feeling like a big deal fast. We just end up wherever we land.
I try to slide out from under his arm, but he tightens his grip instantly, dragging me back against his chest like he senses escape in his sleep. “Don’t,” he mutters.
I smile into the pillow. “I have to get up. I’ve got a showing.”
“No you don’t.”
I laugh. “Yes. I really do.”
He cracks one eye open, dark and lazy and already focused on me. “Call in sick.”
“I sell houses, Javier. I don’t get sick days.”
He hums, hand sliding to my hip, thumb brushing slow and familiar in a way that is absolutely intentional. “You could cancel one.”
“And disappoint my inner overachiever? Never.”
That earns a quiet laugh. Then he pulls me back in and kisses me, slow and warm and distracting in that way he’s perfected. My hand slides into his hair automatically. My brain briefly forgets how calendars work.
He pulls back just enough to smirk, his arm still heavy across my waist. The sheets are twisted around our legs, warm and rumpled. My hair is a mess against the pillow, my skin still flushed. “You were about to stay.”
“I was thinking about coffee,” I lie, shifting my hips and trying to slide out from under his arm.
