“For both of us,” I say, even though my appetite is a fragile thing lately. “Just… I don’t know. As a thank you.”
He stares at me for a moment longer, unreadable. Something in his expression softens, but he doesn’t let it settle. He looks down at himself instead.
“I need to shower first,” he says, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.
“I like you like this,” I say before I can stop myself.
Heat shoots up my neck as soon as the words come out. His head snaps up, eyes sharp and dark, pinning me in place.
He doesn’t comment. He simply watches me for a long, simmering beat that makes my skin prickle. Then, with a low sound that might be amusement or something deeper, he turns and walks toward his room.
I release a slow breath the moment he disappears around the corner.
What am I doing?
I return to the table, adjusting the plates even though everything already looks neat. My palms are damp. My body is too warm. My nerves feel like live wires sparking under my skin.
It’s the hormones, I tell myself. The early pregnancy. The nausea that comes and goes in unpredictable waves. The strange mixture of joy and terror living inside me like two halves of the same truth.
But that’s not it. Not entirely.
Last night wasn’t just emotional. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex. He shared something painful about his childhood. I told him things I’ve never told anyone, not even Kelly. A strange thread formed between us, fine and fragile, but real.
And now I can’t seem to breathe normally when I think of him.
He glances at the food, then at me. “Did you poison it?” he asks dryly.
I roll my eyes, relieved by the joke.
“Yes. Of course. I figured the best way to handle this whole mess was to murder you with cinnamon and carbs.”
He cuts into the French toast, takes a bite, and closes his eyes briefly as if surprised by how good it tastes. When he opens them again, I’m still staring at him. I try to look away, but the connection holds.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I hesitate. Then the truth slips out.
“How much I like being around you.”
His knife stills. His expression tightens almost imperceptibly, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not sure what to do with it. He studies me across the table, eyes moving from my face to my hands to my throat, like he’s reading my thoughts.
“I was also thinking about how grateful I am.” I swallow. “That you care enough to make sure I’m safe. Even when I was being difficult about it.”
His gaze sharpens, darkens, and something warm curls low in my stomach. He stands slowly, like a predator rising from the grass. I freeze.
He walks to me, stopping inches from my chair. My pulse stutters. I tilt my chin to look up at him. His eyes burn down at me, steady and focused.
“You’re not difficult,” he says quietly.
I laugh softly. “That’s generous of you.”
Before I can say anything more, he cups the back of my neck and lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss starts gentle, testing, and warm. My breath catches. My fingers curl against the edge of the table. His thumb strokes the soft place just under my ear, coaxing me closer as heat unspools through my body.
Then he deepens the kiss, slow at first, then more certain, more consuming. His lips move against mine with a hunger that steals my breath. I open to him, letting the sensation flood me. My hand lifts, sliding over the firm line of his chest, feeling warmth and muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.
He makes a low sound deep in his throat that vibrates through me.
