"Oh. Right. Of course."
Is it my imagination, or does she sound disappointed?
"I was thinking of making cookies later, if that's okay? To thank you for letting me stay so long."
"You don't need to thank me."
"I want to." She smiles, small and sweet. "Besides, I need to prove I can actually bake something without burning down your kitchen."
The memory of her first attempt at muffins – and the smoke alarm incident that followed – makes me laugh. "As long as you don't let Emma give you any more 'foolproof' recipes."
"That was one time!" But she's laughing too, relaxed again. Then she stretches, the shirt riding up to show a strip of skin above her jeans, and all my humor evaporates into raw want.
I need to leave. Now. Before I do something stupid like cross the room and show her exactly what she does to me.
"Dean?"
I'm already at the door. "Yeah?"
"I..." She hesitates, fiddling with her sleeve. My sleeve. "Thank you. For everything."
The shy sincerity in her voice hits me like a physical blow. Because it would be easier if this was just attraction – just the maddening need to touch her, taste her, make her say my name in that breathy way she did when I kissed her.
But it's more than that. It's the way she talks to my coffee maker and burns muffins and fills my silent house with humming. The way she's carved out a place here without even trying.
The way I'm starting to need her here, like air.
"I'll be in the workshop," I say roughly, before I can do something unforgivable like tell her exactly how much she means to me. How she's gotten under my skin, into my blood, making me want things I swore I'd never want.
I spend the next hour destroying a perfectly good piece of maple, unable to focus on anything but the memory of her in my shirt, the way she sighs when she's writing, the small sounds she made when I kissed her over a week ago.
The scent of cookies drifts in, followed by a muffled curse and the clatter of a dropped pan. Before I can think better of it, I'm heading for the kitchen.
She's bent over, retrieving scattered cookies from the floor, still wearing my damn shirt. "I swear these are actually edible this time, just a little... floor-adjacent."
"Harper."
She looks up, flour on her cheek, hair escaping its messy bun, and something in my chest cracks wide open.
"I can make more," she says quickly. "I didn't burn anything, I promise. Though maybe we should institute a three-strikes rule for kitchen disasters—"
I cross the kitchen in two strides, haul her up against me, and kiss her like I've been dying to all week.
She makes a startled sound that turns into a soft moan, melting into me. Her hands flutter uncertainly before settling on my chest, gentle and hesitant in a way that makes me want to devour her.
When I finally pull back, she's wide-eyed and breathless. "Oh."
"I shouldn't have."
"No, it's..." She touches her lips, dazed. "That was... um."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." It comes out as a whisper. "I've been wanting... I mean, I thought maybe you didn't..."
"Didn't what?"
"Want to. Again. After the other night." Her cheeks flame. "You've been so careful, keeping your distance, and I thought..."
