“Why is that?” she answered, her smirk matching his.
“There’s no Riley or Edie here to interrupt me when I’m trying to do this…”
That first kiss had been gentle, almost chaste. This kiss, however, was the opposite. His fingers curled in her hair, gently tugging her head back to give him better access, and she gave it willingly.
His lips burned against hers, stealing her breath. She gasped, and something shifted—his hesitation vanished. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened to him without thought. Everything else faded away, leaving only this—his scarred palm cradling her jaw, the taste of whiskey, and the rightness of being exactly where she was.
They settled into comfortable silence after that, the whiskey forgotten on the coffee table as they held each other on the old leather sofa. Her head rested against his shoulder, and she savored every detail. How she seemed to fit so perfectly against him, the way the smell of his cologne had come to feel like home, how she wanted to freeze time and stay in this moment as long as it could.
“Can I ask you something?” Sadie said, her voice just above a whisper as she traced an invisible pattern on the soft fabric covering his chest.
“Anything.”
“That first day, when I arrived and you were so angry I was here… what changed? When did it shift from you wanting me gone to… this?”
Corbyn was quiet for a moment, his fingers combing gently through her hair. A sigh of contentment escaped her, and she relaxed even more into his warmth and the safety she felt in his arms.
“I think it started changing the moment you stood up to me,” he said finally. “You didn’t back down or apologize for doing your job, you just looked me in the eye and told me exactly what you thought of my attitude and my writing.” He smiled at the memory. “No one had done that in a very long time. You saw that I was hiding behind my pain instead of dealing with it, and you called me on it.” Corbyn’s expression grew more serious as he continued, “And then later, when you saw my scars for the first time, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away or pretend they weren’t there. You just… accepted them as part of me.”
“They are part of you,” Sadie said softly, reaching up to trace the line of scars along his jaw. “But they’re not the most important part. Underneath all your brooding, you’re kind, and you care about the people in your life.”
“I don’t brood,” he insisted, although she could see the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
“Says the man who glares out his office window for an hour whenever I win an argument,” she quipped, poking his side gently as she laughed. That elicited a chuckle from him, a smile spreading across his face and making her heart tumble in her chest.
A yawn escaped her as the emotional upheaval of the day finally began to catch up with her. The whiskey and the warmth of his embrace were making her eyelids heavy.
“I should probably find something to sleep in,” Sadie murmured, then blushed slightly. “I didn’t exactly pack for an overnight stay.”
Corbyn’s expression grew tender. “I think I can help with that.” He rose from the sofa and gestured for her to follow. “Come on.”
He led her into a large bedroom, a space that felt even more personal than the sitting room. A large bed dominated the room, its navy duvet slightly rumpled as if he’d just been sitting on it, even though he hadn’t been here in years. Of course books were stacked on both nightstands, and through the open wardrobe, she could see the clothes he’d left behind—expensive suits and casual shirts hanging like ghosts of his former life.
Corbyn moved to the chest of drawers and pulled out a soft gray t-shirt and a pair of navy sweatpants.
“These will be enormous on you, but they’re clean,” he said, holding them out to her.
“Thank you,” Sadie said, accepting the clothes with a grateful smile. The fabric was soft and worn from washing.
“Bathroom’s just through there,” Corbyn said, pointing to a door across the room. “Take your time.”
When she emerged a few minutes later, the clothes were indeed swimming on her; the t-shirt fell nearly to her knees, and the sweatpants were rolled up several times at the ankles. Corbyn had changed as well, and when he looked up from where he’d been folding back the duvet on the bed, something in his expression shifted. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks.
“You look…” he started, then cleared his throat. “I like seeing you in my clothes,” he admitted, his voice rough. “More than I probably should.”
“They’re very comfortable,” Sadie said, heat creeping into her cheeks. “And warm.”
“Good,” Corbyn said, rubbing the back of his neck.
They stood there for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened settling between them. Sadie could see theexhaustion in his face, the emotional toll of returning to this place, of everything they’d shared.
“I should probably let you get some rest,” she said eventually, though she made no move toward the door.
“Sadie? Stay. Please.”
His voice was soft when he said it, almost unsure. She knew he wasn’t asking for anything more than this—no expectations, no pressure—and the thought of falling asleep in his arms had her nodding and moving toward the bed. Once they had settled, he shifted so he was behind her, his chest pressed against her back, and an arm wrapped around her waist. She could feel his breath tickling the skin of her neck, and she couldn’t stop the contented sigh that escaped her lips.
“Is this okay?” he asked, and she could hear the vulnerability in his voice.
