I blink into the soft light filtering through the curtains, trying to piece together the moment.
The place beside me is empty, but it’s still warm, the imprint of a larger body nestled deep into the mattress.
Thatcher.
Without thinking, I turn my face into the pillow he left behind and inhale.
God.
He always smells so good.
Like pine and cedar and soap and snow—and just this deep, rich maleness that fills my chest like a punch and a comfort all at once.
Jesus, I sound like a teenager in heat.
Whatever.
Because right now? I feel sore.
Sated.
And happy.
That last one—the realization of it—sends a jolt through me like cold water.
Happy.
When was the last time I could say that word and mean it?
Not just fake a smile or tell my mom I was “fine” on the phone.
But when was the last time I really felt something good?
It’s terrifying.
Exhilarating.
Hope is dangerous when you’ve been burned.
And this? Whatever this is—me, in his bed, wearing his shirt, breathing his scent—it feels like something too soft to hold.
I sit up slowly, the sheet pooling around my waist, and that’s when I see him.
He’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
Watching me.
And the look in his eyes?
Dark. Possessive. Dangerous.
It lands somewhere low in my belly and spreads through me like heat.
“Oh,” I say, startled and awkward and suddenly aware of my ridiculous bedhead. “Um, good morning.”
“Morning, Baby Girl.”
His voice is low, lazy.
